Three Islands Make An Archipelago
by BittersweetAnne
Summary: Four years after the Battle of Hogwarts, Hermione Granger knows a force of nature is coming that could either save or destroy Wizarding Britain. Knowing it's coming, and being prepared for it's effects; however, are very different things. SlowBurn, Marriage Law, Dramoine and then some. POC Hermione. DM/HG/BZ. DH Compliant, EWE.
1. Chapter 1

It was not without reservations that he got up and went to work lately. Malfoys didn't historically work, not in the traditional sense anyway. Managing family and farming estates wasn't viewed as an occupation, but a duty, and political meddling, while potentially profitable, was more of a hobby. He technically didn't have to work, he'd inherited all the family lands and properties when Lucius passed, which all had income, mostly agricultural. His father had also dabbled a bit in Continental trade markets, and those contracts were still running, but he didn't fuss wth them. He knew the money was coming in, for better or for worse.

Despite what reputation he might have had of the pampered princeling as a younger man, Draco had never disliked managing the estates for Malfoy Manor and the winter house, Château d'Ivry personally, including the livestock. He did not mind getting mud on his boots if it meant helping a mare give birth, or aiding a leasing farmer find a wayward ram. His father had bemoaned this behavior and fobbed it off on him in all but name when he was thirteen. Not that he would have admitted it at school, but he'd been leasing land to farmers, planning crop acreage, discussing husbandry, seed-banking, and drawing up contracts with vendors since before his first kiss.

Malfoy Manor's immediate grounds had always been a showcase for his mother's gardening, but the surrounding land held stables, pastures, crops, and the kennels for his father's hunting dogs. He currently had various lessees: a hippogriff breeder, two baidrag sheep herders from Tibet, several crop farmers of both potion ingredients and food. The Ministry had even asked him two years prior to commit a few hectares of his land to growing aconite for new subsidized Wolfsbane potions, per new legislation allowing registered werewolves to work. It saved him a tidy bundle on his land taxes, and Remus Lupin had been a good professor, so he hadn't been upset to do it.

However, d'Ivry was a donjon, an ancient Norman keep, so he rented rooms in the summer for vacationers or for storage, but the surrounding lands had been mostly sold off to Muggles over the years. It worked out well, since Muggles seemed to perceive d'Ivry as ruins, so they left the keep itself alone and only toured it in the summer, and he was only there in the winter, if he visited at all. The dungeons and caves beneath were used to age cognac and cheese, which with the renters, it was enough income to keep the house solvent.

Regardless of his familial duties and earnings, somewhere along the line, it had become his habit to get up and go to work anyway. This morning, he was taciturn and strangely introspective, rubbing sleep from his face in broad swipes as he thought back over the last four years since the Battle of Hogwarts, six years since his induction into the service of Lord Voldemort.

His trial in June of 1998 had been terrifying, a month in solitary confinement in Azkaban had been more than enough time to ponder all the inane and unforgivable things he'd done. He'd been given leniency for his age and family pressures at the end of his trial, but had still been given parole with the expectation of community service beyond the buying of politicians that was called 'philanthropy' in polite society. He'd paid reparations, to be sure, and his movements, company, and wand were under surveillance for a time. Alas, the newly-minted Minister Shacklebolt and the Wizengamot had decided, with their usual panache for failing to think through the logistics, that he would finish his final year at Hogwarts and then serve his parole and community service time by training to be a Healer at St. Mungos.

Hogwarts had not been easy to face, but he'd muddled through and graduated, as looking down the Ministry's wand at parole had kept him well enough in line that he didn't think about hissed invective and the derision of him classmates most days. He'd gotten back in touch with Theo that year, which had been a personal boon to him in that it had kept his spirits up enough that he hadn't considered pitching himself off the Astronomy Tower more than was healthy. He'd even been able to mend bridges with Blaise, which was nigh-on a miracle.

Potter and Weasel were blessedly absent for the year, he'd expected it after seeing the front page articles about their having joined the DMLE. Granger had been back that year, but that had also been expected, so they'd been civil and distant to one another. It had served Headmistress McGonagall's post-war house unity goals, and it had been a quiet example to younger students that they ought to find ways to coexist. If he and Granger could, then anyone could. Their interactions that year had lacked malice, but they'd also lacked the semantic repartee that had made riling her up so interesting in the past. She'd still been visibly dedicated to her academics, but she'd seemed to be in an odd dream-state, muted and resigned somehow. That had been unexpected, but he'd been too focused on getting through the year that he'd mostly forgotten about it unless something triggered a specific memory:

She'd been in the library, and they'd both reached for the same Alchemy tome—she'd politely suggested they share a table so they could both get work done—he'd observed scars on her hands as she wrote and he'd desperately tried not to remember the sound of her screams. When she'd caught him staring, she'd quirked an espresso brow at him and he'd been compelled to ask her how it was she could treat him like she didn't hate him. Her answer had been sincere, spartan, melancholic, and the casual dismissal had put a rod of ice down his spine:

"I never hated you, I hated your upbringing, your vile language, and your blood supremacy. Anyway, I'm tired of hate, I've decided not to."

When he arrived at St. Mungos after graduation, he'd tried to save some face by acting as he had before, but it only ended with him appropriately cowed by his classmates who had academically fought tooth and nail to be there. His bonus for better overall public behavior was to constantly keep his head down lest the family members of patients recognize him in the pack of students roaming the hospital halls.

He'd made it through his time as a student, and as a parolee, without enough fuss to stop him from showing up after he'd completed the terms of his punishment. He'd hated the grunt work at first, cleaning up vomit and spilled potions was beneath him, even if he didn't have to actually use his hands to do it. After a while, he'd forgotten that he had even seen a mess, a _Tergeo_ would fall from his lips, and he'd have already moved on to learning the next ailment, or treating the next set of injuries. He made the decision to keep his head down, grin, and bear it, if for nothing else than for the sake of his mother, who just wanted everything to return to normal. Which it never would.

Lucius had been irreparably broken by Azkaban, Voldemort, Azkaban again, and then wergild reparations, or 'The Bloodletting', as he'd haughtily dubbed it. Narcissa lamented the damage done to her husband privately, and would occasionally rail against Dumbledore's memory for not saving her son when he'd had a multitude of opportunities. After Lucius' death two years ago, she'd publicly clung blithely to the idea that she'd saved their family by lying to The Dark Lord, and as such, they would soon regain their social standing, regardless of the new world order. Draco did neither. He existed, he survived, and learned, and spoke very little.

He still found himself short on patience, sometimes jealous and materialistic, not the biggest fan of humanity in general, but he didn't bark or sneer nearly as much. He was still malicious before his morning tea, and his humor would likely always be equally acidic measures of sarcasm and biting criticism, but he lost his temper less often, slept better, drank less. Perhaps that had been the true goal of his punishment, to teach him humility. He didn't inspect that thought too much. St. Mungos had occupied his time, and given him sufficient distraction over the course of three years, that it had suddenly surprised him one morning when he realized he was slipping on Healers robes instead of Trainee ones.

But it had been one too many complaints after he'd done his job to the hospital administration, the temerity of the hospital to keep a former Death Eater, if somewhat a publicly-acknowledged shoddy one, on their staff. It hadn't been as much of an issue when everyone knew, it had been in the Prophet after all, that his service at the hospital had been a part of his parole, the public seemed to think it deserved, and when they needed to vomit, they seemed to aim for his shoes.

It hadn't mattered that he was capable, creative, or better with small children than anyone was anticipating. It hadn't mattered that he'd been sixteen and terrified, indoctrinated, or trying desperately to protect his mother. No one wanted him as their or their child's Healer, and none of the complaints were ever lodged to his face, so it had somewhat blindsided him when they'd told him he was being dismissed. It had become too much of hassle to keep him without the Ministry mandating his presence.

They'd suggested he go into private practice, but it hadn't appealed to him. He was generally a subdued, morose version of his former self most days, and he imagined that the only families that would hire him were families whose politics had gotten him into this mess in the first place. Shacklebolt had sent him a lunch invitation, and it did not behoove former parolees to ignore summons from the Minister for Magic, so he'd gone. Draco blamed his current employment solely at that man's sandal-strapped feet.

It was nearing the end of his first week at the Ministry serving as the department medic for the Aurors office in the DMLE, and his first day as a Trainee Auror. He'd spent the better part of the week in classes or physical training sessions and it was beginning to chafe, mentally. He'd been irritable all morning, which wasn't unusual when he woke up and thought back to the war and the aftermath, but keeping it compartmentalized was tiring and that only make him more tetchy.

He'd been pleasantly surprised to find out on his first day that in the four years since the Battle of Hogwarts, all of the Death Eaters and Snatchers had been rounded up, and with them, Ron Weasley had lost his taste for being an Auror. It would have severely tried his patience to have to deal with the Weasel. He'd apparently gone to work with the remaining older twin brother, and Draco had always privately thought the twins had been excellent fun, if lacking in subtlety.

Potter had been oddly welcoming, giving him a slightly sad smile on his first day and speaking to him about setting aside schoolboy rivalries. Draco had accepted and shaken the Boy Wonder's hand, because it had been good politics, and it had been so refreshing to be greeted affably, that he hadn't ever considered not accepting. The Head of the Auror Department had made them partners, Draco supposed it was likely because no one else would partner with him, but Potter laughed it off when Draco muttered something to that effect,

"It's more likely he wanted to stop blowing budget lines on my visits to St. Mungos. That man hates spending a knut he doesn't have to, and I get banged up more than a bit."

Potter had been an Auror since passing the entrance exam a few months after the Battle of Hogwarts, and had recently married the Weaselette, who was racking up championships for the Holyhead Harpies at a shocking speed. Ginevra Potter née Weasley was currently the bane of his existence, however; as she had breezed into the Auror training gym to give Potter his lunch, as usual, and then had begun laying into his former nemesis in a tone that reminded Draco strongly of her mother's Howlers from across the Great Hall.

"What do you mean you haven't tried to reach her again?" Potter ran his fingers through his already muddled hair and seemed to murmur an answer his wife didn't find satisfactory,

"I don't care what she wanted! No one has seen her in ages!" She threw her hands up in the air with a exasperated snort and stormed out. As if having his eardrums near to bursting wasn't bad enough, Potter then turned to him and started shout-drilling him on legal procedures while firing hexes at him in a impromptu practice duel. Not good.


	2. Chapter 2

Potter approached him a little sheepishly the next morning while he was sipping his second cup of tea at his desk,

"Sorry about yesterday afternoon." He gave a clipped nod behind his cup in acknowledgment of his colleague,

"Accepted." He opened his mouth, hesitated, and then asked against his better judgement, "What was all that about anyway?"

"Hermione."

"Granger? I thought she worked here somewhere, so why is your wife looking for her by asking you instead of just going to her office?"

"Hermione does work at the Ministry, but well, she spent about eighteen months in Creatures, then came here to the DMLE to do research, but she was loaned out to the Department of Mysteries about a year ago, and we haven't seen her in a while. She had been checking in with Kingsley sort of monthly, and she'd come for dinner, but it's been some time now. Ginny's worried for nothing, and Hermione doesn't like interruptions, like having a social life, when she's working on something big." Potter paused, as if he were considering sharing his next opinion,

"And frankly, when Hermione says to leave her be for a while, I'm inclined to listen. She can be vicious when she feels disrespected or betrayed. Going against something she said to do, or not to do, can earn a dose of wrath I'm not interested in getting thrown my way."

Draco gave an amused snort, that sounded just like something Granger would do, and the Potter-wife, for that matter. He knew that the newly-minted Mrs. Potter could be intrusive and bullheaded to the point of desperation—he'd watched her play Quidditch for years, she hunted the Quaffle or an adversary like a persistence hunter—until her quarry laid down and accepted their inevitable defeat. He also remembered Marietta Edgecombe's unfortunate forehead from fifth year, and while he didn't know how it came to be, he'd heard Granger was the one responsible. One of his eyebrows rose as he pondered it before mentioning,

"I ended up down in Mysteries the other day, trying to get to the Registrar's office, and I noticed that no one was there. I know they're the Department of Mysteries, but the creepily empty work stations is a bit on the bloody nose."

Potter chuckled, and then supplied more troubling information,

"The entire department emptied when they borrowed Hermione, they're all working from remote locations on the same thing, not that anyone but them and Kingsley knows what that is..."

"That does not sound encouraging, Potter," who had the audacity to smirk, but said nothing else about it.

The rest of the day progressed, blended into weeks, a month, he just kept getting up for work.

After stitching Potter up a few times, he and the Potter-wife eventually hit an accord, mostly gossiping and judging strangers' outfits over lunch whilst sipping tea. Sometimes she was out of town for matches, and while eating lunch those days were slightly more uncomfortable, he would not have said that they were friends, and he did not even admit to himself that it might be possible that he missed those conversations on 'alone-days'.

The Weasel came in every now and again to collect Potter for lunch, sneering at Draco before grinning at his friend. For the most part, they both seemed content to pretend the other didn't exist beyond a silent battle of disgusted facial expressions. Draco acknowledged to himself that this was a new level of restraint for Weasley, and he was nearly impressed. Nearly. From what he gleaned from conversations with Ginny, her brother was now co-owner of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes and was currently enjoying being a tom-cat-about-town. That had surprised him, as he'd thought that Weasley and Granger would be an item, if not wed by now. Curiosity be damned, but it had taken Draco six weeks to nudge Ginny into admitting that Hermione had broken up with the bloke just a few months after the war, and apparently not amicably.

Potter kept inviting him over for dinner, which he found himself begrudgingly thankful for, but never said anything to Potter. It was how they worked: magnitudes were understood and accepted at a glance, but nothing was ever said aloud. They had more in common than they'd ever admit to, either, so it didn't come as that much of a stretch once they'd put aside their childhood animosity. He always politely declined the dinner invitations because he didn't think they were anything more than social obligation and he never brought up their mutual past. Potter seemed fine with it, best leave well enough alone.

Theo would drop in to see him at lunch occasionally, wanting to pester Draco about some legality, or mine him for information about wealthy families with daughters. Theo was land-rich and cash-poor, regardless of inheriting the Nott estates. His father hadn't managed them, more accurately Thadius Nott had handed whatever income they had over to the Dark Lord, and he hadn't planned for continuing or sustaining said income. Things had floundered, and Theo was rebuilding. It was his friend's catharsis—to snark, gossip, and flirt overtly—while slowly clawing back prestige, cash, and powerful acquaintances. Theo was on the hunt for a bride, and as his mother had died when he was young, he'd had to navigate high teas and galas solo. Draco had suggested Theo seek his mother's help for three reasons: it got Narcissa off Draco's back, it gave his mother a reason to attend those events that made her happy as they let her pretend nothing had changed, and it helped his friend.

Blaise came over to the Manor occasionally to visit when he was back and forth from Italy and couldn't be bothered to book a hotel room or go to any of the properties he'd inherited from various former stepfathers. He'd convinced his mother to turn the warehouses of goods inherited from past husbands into a flourishing antiques and import/export business. It suited Blaise—he could travel at will, he made mountains of money, he kept mother happy between spouses—and while Blaise had contrition now, little else had changed. Blaise had never been vehement about blood politics, but had used the lingo to his advantage whilst in Slytherin. If Blaise cared past convenience, he'd never said as much to Draco, he seemed happier making money, living, eating, and shagging whatever most appealed to him at the moment. They spent their evenings as they always had, drinking Ogdens, discussing politics, the society daughters their mothers were attempting to throw at them this month—sometimes they even discussed their unconventional romantic relationship—but not often. They'd always known that despite whatever they'd had between them, that they'd be required to marry someday. They'd both been with witches before, but those relationships had been impermanent, and they always seemed to drift back to one another.

Draco was becoming comfortable again, he laughed easier, cracked more jokes. It was like he was crawling back inside a better version of his old skin. Improved through adversity, but having been prodded repeatedly, approaching comfortable. That was, anyway, until one morning in April, when Potter strode up to his desk with a glare that could kill-it was even the right color-and growled at him,

"Kinsgley wants to see us. Now. I just got his Patronus."

"The Minister? What for?" He had the presence of mind to stand while asking, hastily pulling on his Trainee Auror robes as he tucked his chair back in.

"Haven't the slightest, but we've got to go." Potter was crooking an elbow as if offering to escort a woman, and that's when it hit Draco that they were Apparating.

"Just tell me where we're going Potter, and I'll meet you there. I'm not taking your arm like a schoolgirl."

"I can't tell you where we're going, so just take my fucking arm, Malfoy, I'm not in the mood to argue." Potter may generally not have had the cleanest of vocabularies, but his use of that particular expletive made Draco's eyebrows jump, something was seriously awry, and Potter wasn't being tight-lipped about it to be coy. His mind leapt to the next most likely scenario:

"Fidelius?" Potter nodded shortly, and Draco scowled, but held on to his arm as a loud 'pop' sounded, and they were pulled like taffy out of the DMLE and off to whatever secret place they were going.


	3. Chapter 3

When they landed, Draco tried to take a cursory glance around, but Shacklebolt was bellowing for them to come quickly, that Granger was hurt. Draco noticed only the vaguest outline of the rolling green hills and several little copses of fruit trees as he and Potter charged toward the stone and stucco Georgian country cottage. He could smell a sea breeze, though, so it was likely not far off somewhere behind him. Now was not the time to take note of the architecture, but it was part of his childhood education that he couldn't shut off. There was a salten circle on the front patio, the dust shifted and smeared by the Minister's kente cloth robes as he circled the prone and bleeding body of one Hermione Granger.

She was as he remembered, in many ways, all crème brûlée skin and chocolate curls, freckled nose, strong shoulders and ample hips. He'd somehow forgotten how petite she was, it seemed more apparent when she was unconscious. The last time he'd seen her had been at Hogwarts, his trial, before that it had been at the Battle of Hogwarts and Malfoy Manor around Easter. In many ways, this was like that. She wasn't awake, gaunt, skin gone ashen and lavender in fear, covered in grime, screaming, or staring at him with terrified eyes, but her body and white cotton shift were splattered with blood and a smattering of deep torn wounds that basic healing spells had clearly failed to seal.

Potter pulled the bereft Minister away, and Draco took only a moment before he cleared his mind and began churning his wand into diagnostic, and then healing spells. When he'd sealed the wounds and felt confident she could be moved, he tried to levitate her into the house, but he couldn't, he'd run himself ragged. He hadn't been using verbal spells, as sometimes his mouth couldn't keep up with his mind, and it wouldn't help if he'd garbled the pronunciation. He looked up at the other two men,

"Bring her into the house. She needs rest." Potter had clearly forgotten his wand in his panic, because he crouched down, pulled her across his chest, and carried her inside. Draco didn't dare cross the threshold without being invited in, so he set himself about cleaning the blood and salt away from the sandstone cobbles. Shacklebolt turned to him, wordlessly spelling her blood from his hands.

"Come inside, Mr. Malfoy. I'm sure you'll need to check on her in a bit, but first we should make sure you don't fall over."

"I was thinking of returning home to get my potions supplies, Minister. Perhaps you could accompany me so I can return after the fact?"

"Nonsense, Mr. Malfoy, I think you'll find either Ms. Granger's finished potions or her workroom are up to snuff. Please come in, young man, you look as though you're about to collapse. You'll splinch yourself if you try to head home right now." Draco sighed, resigned to the man's logic, and followed him into the house.

He could hear Potter pacing in an upstairs room, his footfalls heavy in his haste, occasionally stopping to turn, viciously tap a toe before resuming. It was something he'd only seen Potter do once before, when Ginny had been injured in a game while they were in the field. Potter hadn't been able to head straight to St. Mungos, and it was clear this was how he worked out his apprehension. Draco hung his Trainee Auror robe on one of the wooden pegs in the vestibule and took a moment to look around the front rooms.

The rooms thus far appeared light and airy, a muted sage green in the parlor, robin's egg blue in the dining room, the molding was white-washed. Two walls of the parlor were stuffed with bookshelves, a writing desk facing the bay window overlooking the patio, and three squashy aubergine velvet reading chairs facing the fireplace. There were alchemical treatise plates, astrological charts, botanical diagrams, and ley-line maps in simple dark wood frames crowded onto the walls in the dining room. There was an apothecary cabinet that matched the cherry table, which was covered in neat stacks of parchments, with a jam jar full of Muggle pens and pencils in the center. All in all, in was clean and fresh, comfortable, and oddly stylish. His mother would have approved, despite thinking it rustic, as it fit the milieu of the country cottage.

Shacklebolt had disappeared toward the back of the house, into the kitchen if Draco's ears were to be trusted, the Minister apparently busying himself by putting the kettle on. Potter came downstairs, and quirked an eyebrow at the fact that he was still hesitating in the entry. Potter gestured to the parlor, and Draco settled himself into one of the armchairs. Potter resumed his pacing, and he found himself nearly about to bark at Potter over it when Shacklebolt came in with a tea tray and set in on a cherry side table set next to the door. They each fixed a tea for themselves in turn, fidgeting in near silence for a few minutes. The Minister broke the tense quiet first,

"Potter, you should probably return to the office. Send me your Patronus with word about the others? I will need to be debriefed when she wakes, and Mr. Malfoy will see to any further needs she may have." It was said without volume or malice, but the basso profundo gave the strong implication that he would not accept argument either. Potter stood and asked hesitantly,

"Where does her Anti-Apparition ward end again?"

"I took it down so you could come here. I will re-ward the property in a moment." Draco choked a bit on his tea, as quietly as he could, having figured out that Potter had likely never been here prior to today, and that Shacklebolt was her Secret-Keeper. What had she been working on that even The Boy Who Lived had been barred from her house?! The Minister rose, and spoke to him as Potter shut the door none too quietly behind him,

"Shall we see if the patient is awake? It has been the better part of an hour, and I imagine if she wakes before we can stop her, she'll be coming down the stairs any minute." Draco doubted it very highly, considering she'd over-extended her magic—exhausting and injuring herself—or considering the amount of blood she'd lost. However, he didn't want to underestimate her Gryffindor stubbornness, and the Minister clearly knew her well enough to make such an estimation of her.

"I'd like to bring up a Blood Replenishing potion, first. Can you show me to her workroom?" Shacklebolt nodded. He raked his fingers through his hair as he rose, mentally noting that he should probably get it trimmed, as it was beginning to brush between his shoulder blades and he had failed to charm it in place this morning. It was a fight to keep it from cascading back over his face and eyes. He supposed that it was alright though, no part of him wanted to appear haughty, or frankly look her directly in the eye, if she were awake.

The Minister lead him through the hall, where he saw the kitchen to his left, painted champagne yellow with a smorgasbord of herbs hanging from the ceiling, a small loo ahead, and a closed door to his right. Upon opening, the door seemed to buzz and the air shimmered a bit, the room's warding visible for just a moment. Shacklebolt strode in and Draco listened as he hunted for the correct potion, the sound of delicate glass vials tinkling against one another before he emerged and shut the door behind him.

"The stairs are through the kitchen, follow me."

Draco focused his eyes on the man's back as they crossed the kitchen, feeling suddenly as if he was snooping by peering about and assessing the personal space of a witch he'd barely arrived at civility with, a sum total of three years prior. It was in his nature to do so, to observe, pick apart, to understand as much as possible without being told, but he fought it for the time being. The stairs were narrow, but the walls were lined with daguerreotypes of past occupants, small framed embroideries, the occasional inked silhouette portrait. It was old-fashioned, and none of it appeared to be wizarding in origin, but it still lent itself to the universal comfort of the house.

He would wait in the hall, he decided, not wanting to put the woman on edge right away, if she had indeed, woken up.

...

Everything ached. Her joints felt swollen and red hot, her muscles were fluttering, and her skin felt tight and itchy. It was the itching sensation that finally tipped her out of a dozing dream-state into consciousness.

Kingsley breezed in her bedroom door, observing her attempting to put her feet on the floor. She had things to discuss with him, despite her physical pain, or her questions about how she'd gotten back in the house, as she vaguely remembered being exhausted and passing out.


	4. Chapter 4

Of course she was awake. The Minister had swept into the room and Draco had caught a glimpse of one bare foot about to make contact with the worn floorboards before Shacklebolt spoke,

"Now, now, Ms. Granger, it will not do to have you up and about just yet. You lost a good deal of blood, and I need to be debriefed. You might as well rest while you tell me...Ah, actually, let's kill three birds with one stone. Mr. Malfoy arrived with Mr. Potter and myself and saw you healed, and he is outside. I'm sure he'd like to come in and give you the Blood-Replenishing potion I pulled from your stores, give you a look over, et cetera. Shall I ask him in?"

She must have given her assent, as the Minister stuck his head out the door and gestured for him to enter. Draco found his feet momentarily stuck to the floor, but overcame in it favor of an overriding, impersonal professionalism. He'd taken his fair share of lumps when entering a patient's room in St. Mungos, and the best way to overcome it was to get in, get the work done, and get out. When he raised his eyes from the floor, however, she was giving him a speculative look that he remembered from sixth year, and it made him flinch ever-so-slightly. She noticed, and the Minister seemed happy enough to ignore having seen it, even if it was clear that he had.

Draco handed her the potion, and began slowly murmuring through the list of diagnostic spells, checking to see how she had recovered thus far. Not much, but enough to sit up and speak, he supposed. She really should get a few more hours of sleep. She must have realized he wasn't going to talk to her for the time being, so she drank the potion and began speaking to Shacklebolt, notably, on a first name basis,

"Kingsley, we tried to stop it, but we failed. It's coming. The best the Ministry can do now, is legislate around it, set boundaries so that all hell doesn't break loose. It's too old, too powerful. There's no stopping it, only moderating it's severity."

"I see, Ms. Granger, any suggestions?"

"The Sorting Hat, and why are you calling me that? You've been calling me Hermione since I was fifteen..."

"Hmm, that could be disastrous or brilliant. And I was attempting to spare Mr. Malfoy's sense of propriety." He looked up at both of them abruptly at having been addressed, even if indirectly. Granger responded immediately,

"It's the only thing in Britain vaguely close to old enough to wrangle the forces involved, as the Avebury cauldron is defunct, and it has to be an item tied to the land and people, we can't borrow anything—also I have the distinct feeling that Malfoy doesn't have any expectations of propriety from me." Draco's face contorted, barely holding back a snarl and a sharp comment at her insinuation that he was still the same bigoted, snobby, prig from their school days, but she saw and laughed before she finally turned the full force of her eyes on him and responded,

"That's not what I meant, Malfoy, I was referring to our truce from eighth year, and from seven years prior of having observed my behavior. While manners are important to me, I have a habit of being more familiar in my address of others than wizards might like." He swallowed the vitriol poised on his tongue in favor of a blander response, but a polite one,

"Granger, your politesse has never been faulty, only different. It's my understanding that it's uncommon in the Muggle world to still use honorifics unless it's a formal occasion. So it likely sounds like we're all walking around in an Edwardian romance to you, but your addressing the Minister by his first name does sound quite odd to me."

She laughed again,

"It's not my fault you're all so formal!" She paused, "What's your diagnosis, then, Mr. Malfoy?" He clapped his mouth shut at her sarcastic but polite response, then spoke while pretending to doff a cap in her direction,

"You need more sleep, Ms. Granger." It felt odd to joke with her, disquieting even, but not enough to stop him. She leaned away from both men to grab her wand and he immediately interjected,

"I wouldn't attempt that for now, you're exhausted, your wounds were from overextending your magic." His tone was perhaps more clipped than was necessary, but he wanted her to take him seriously.

"I was just going to change the warding on my workroom to admit you," she replied, duly chastised. The Minister was smirking when he spoke up,

"I'll take care of it, Hermione."

It was at that moment that a opalescent blue stag burst through the wall, and Draco may or may not have jumped a few inches at the sight of the six foot beast's abrupt appearance. It dipped its head and antlers at Shacklebolt, then addressed Hermione,

"Hermione if you're awake, you should still be sleeping. Kingsley, I have news, please return immediately." Hermione frowned,

"That's not good, or he just would have said."

Kingsley nodded to Hermione, pulled two fingers at Draco to follow, and headed for the stairs. Draco couldn't help worrying that now the Minister's first name was in his head...hopefully he wouldn't slip with such an informal address out loud. Once they were back in the vestibule, the man turned,

"I have to go back, but you should stay here and look after her for the time being, I'll be back tomorrow for tea." He promptly Apparated away, not only did the warding not apply to him, but he hadn't given Draco any opportunity to protest the idea of being left alone with Hermione Granger. Whom he had been an ass to for the vast majority of his schooling, whom he'd seen tortured, whom he'd once tried to stop from killing Voldemort. Ugh, this was going to be a very long two days.

He decided to head back upstairs for the time being, and made short work of knocking on her door. He entered after a noise of assent, and finally took a look around. The walls were two shades of lavender making a brocade pattern against the same white-washed trim, which was more feminine than he was anticipating of her. There were additional bookshelves filling the two corners nearest the hall, an evergreen wing-back chair in the corner to his right, a window seat facing the front garden, and two doors opposite the bed, presumably to a closet and an en suite lavatory. She was watching him assess the room from her nest of cream sheets and pillows, a toffee colored quilt across the top, and an umber fur blanket folded across the foot of the bed. There was some kind of design in white paint on the floorboards bordering the room, several swirls and cross hatches branching off a center line, but he didn't recognize it. She was waiting for him to say something, he realized.

"You have a lovely home, Granger."

"Thank you, Malfoy...Did Kingsley change the wards for you?"

"I haven't checked yet, but he said he'd be back for tea tomorrow. I wanted to ask if you need a Dreamless Sleep before I head down."

"No thank you," she hesitated and chewed her full lower lip as if contemplating saying something further, but her creased brow suggested she'd decided against it.

"I'll just doze. Could you make me a chamomile tea, please? With honey and lemon?" He nodded. It was hardly as if she could make her own. It was clear that they were holding to their previous truce through formality, but he'd rather not stir the pot and be stuck in her house if they were fighting. He'd take it. She reached to her bedside table and switched on some kind of wireless radio, and a quiet classical tune warbled out of it. He knew a polite dismissal when he saw one, and turned to leave. She spoke abruptly,

"You can stay and read if you like. Otherwise, I'm afraid I'll start rattling off chores just to give you something to occupy your time, and it would feel rude to do that, you're a guest, even if a required one." He found himself chuckling,

"The moment I do chores for you, Granger, will be a cold day in hell. But I will go get your tea, and then I will read. No need to have you shouting across the house should you need something." His jibe lacked malice and she clearly noticed as she also chuckled.

"Thank you for your quick wand work. I have the feeling some other members of my department weren't so lucky as to have an Auror medic on hand." He started slightly,

"I didn't realize Potter kept you informed of my doings."

"Well, not Harry certainly. He doesn't seem to think those sorts of details might be important until the last minute. No. You were mentioned in Ginny's last Howler. Congratulations on the position." This he laughed at outright. He was still grinning when he spoke again, and she appeared to be calculating the facial expression,

"Why did Ginevra Potter send you a Howler?!" She chuckled along,

"Something about 'there's no project so important that I can't visit every once in a while' and that she'd spent more time gossiping with you lately, so I was clearly being a terrible friend for not coming to see her." This stopped his laughter,

"Whatever is was that you were working on was clearly not so unimportant that you could ignore it for a bloody social call, or else you wouldn't have been bleeding out on your front patio." He knew his tone was hard, he found himself annoyed that Ginny was being selfish and callous, but Granger just laughed,

"That's Ginny though, unafraid to put something indelicately in order to prove a point. She didn't upset me in the least, or I would have returned to London." He found himself giving an undignified snort, while he had come to like Ginny a great deal, her lack of tact was sometimes off-putting. Rather than spitting invective at his patient about her friend, he pulled a sour face for a moment and muttered,

"I'll go get your tea."

 **...**

He'd used humor. Shocking. She'd remembered them coming to a quiet accord during their eighth year at Hogwarts, but she'd never really joked with him. The closest they'd gotten in the past was that their verbal lances hadn't been tipped with spite and malice that year. Instead, the few times they had exchanged harsh words, the conversations had seemed forcibly polite, cold, and hollow. She'd postulated that they'd both been learning how to talk to one another without hurling hexes, and formality was easier for him and not offensive to her. It was the foundation of the de facto truce between her and Draco Malfoy eighth year.

Hermione hadn't seen him since graduation, but she'd been privy to the fact that he was due to serve his parole at St. Mungos since she'd spoken at his trial before returning to school. She may or may not have hinted to Kingsley that Malfoy should serve there, instead of with the Auror Department, as hunting his father's compatriots would have put him at risk. St. Mungos was not in direct conflict with whatever Death Eaters will still roaming free, and his contrition all year had convinced her she'd made the correct suggestion. She'd been in for a debriefing when Kingsley had gotten an owl when St. Mungos had dismissed Malfoy—as if he'd been somewhat eagerly waiting for that to happen—and she'd watched him send a lunch invitation off to Malfoy Manor.

To suddenly be confronted with his biting wit and the transformative effect of a grin on his usually bland patrician face was disquieting. He'd developed crows' feet that crinkled up next to his eyes when he smiled or laughed, and while it was odd to see, she could admit to herself that they were appealing on his face. His eyes were still guarded and the color of summer thunderclouds bursting with torrential rain. His shoulders were slightly broader than in her memory, and sloped slightly down and inwards as if he were secretly about to hug himself. She decided it looked downtrodden, and she quietly missed the abrupt and rigid posture of his school days, and would prefer to never see his shoulders pulled up around his ears in anxious self-defense like in sixth year. His hair had gotten much longer than she'd ever seen it, but it somehow enviably managed to sweep across his forehead and frame his face before cascading over his shoulders and a third the way down his back. She wondered if this was some subconscious way he remembered Lucius since the man had passed a year or so earlier...maybe two years?

She'd known that he and Ginny had become acquainted since he'd been partnered with Harry, and that the firebrand witch was beginning to become offended that the pureblooded wizard still declining dinner invitations. Hermione had rightly ignored that letter, she'd been on the crux of her work for Kingsley, and she wasn't going to shirk it for social duty or for Ginny's temper.. Now her mentor and friend, despite being much older and the Minister of Magic, had left Malfoy in her house, where even Harry hadn't been since she made Kingsley the Secret Keeper. She decided to follow the former Healer Malfoy's instructions to avoid using magic, and get more rest, side-stepping mentioning to him that she couldn't have Dreamless Sleep anymore, as she'd become mildly immune to it, and therefore more likely to abuse it. Another day, perhaps, if it became medically pertinent for him to know.


	5. Chapter 5

She'd pulled on a long hunter green cardigan over her cotton chemise, sipped her tea, nestled herself in, listened to the music from the wireless, and finally dozed off while he perused her bookshelves, and then absently skimmed pages of Shakespeare to keep himself occupied and silent. It was not as uncomfortable as he'd imagined it would be.

He tried to shut off the observant, anxious bits of his brain to little avail while she slept. Book titles held his eyes for a short while, but eventually he ran out of things to inspect around the room, and his observation turned to her. There were lighter spots on the skin of her hands, from across the room he could only assume they were small scars from a lifetime of potions, battles, and average childhood scuffs. As his eyes were already on her hands, he began cataloguing her jewelry. His mother had always been able to tell a shocking amount about a woman from her accessory choices, so he decided to occupy his time with trying to see what he could glean.

There was a noticeable lack of a wedding ring, but the presence of several plain silver bands, a wider silver ring dotted with silver spheres that looked like soap bubbles on water, and one massive girdle of an antique silver ring carrying a large chunk of polished amber. His attention turned to the two small diamond stud earrings per lobe, and around her neck a twisted silver torc, as well as a small red cotton pouch hanging from a leather cord. The silver ring with spheres looked like a hammered sheath under the added metal bubbles, simple, contemporary, new—something she'd bought for herself then. The amber ring was clearly aged, kept for sentimental reasons, presumably some kind of past meaning, either family or romantic. Pierced ears were not uncommon, although the second set of holes was new to him, but the diamond earrings provided little insight beyond her preference for classic, understated, and a largely non-ostentatious personal aesthetic. The torc was new, but made after the ancient design, ogham runes ran down each strand of metal and around the flanges, some form of stylized creature's face forming the facing end caps. He couldn't tell what the animal was from this distance. The pouch was a complete mystery, it was sanguine in color, and appeared to have something inside it, but beyond that he had no idea. Perhaps he would tell his mother when he got home tomorrow and see what she inferred. If he couldn't occupy himself effectively this way, he figured he might as well actually read the book in his hands.

When she began shuffling around a few hours later, he froze. Was she naturally fussy whilst waking, or having a nightmare? She answered his mental query by sitting bolt upright with a massive intake of air, as if she was coming up from underwater. He decided not to comment outright, but rather he approached the bed and began casting diagnostic spells under his breath. It was late afternoon, and he knew she should eat, but he wasn't sure if she should leave the bed. His own stomach gave an embarrassingly loud grumble just as he had the thought.

She smirked, "Well, Healer Malfoy, am I well enough to make us something to eat?"

"Technically, yes, but let's keep your activity and meals simple. I shan't be holding your hair if you get ill, and I'm not sure how long you can stand without fatigue."

He proceeded her down the stairs in case she lost her balance, and listened to her bare feet slap a little hesitantly against the stairs behind him. Once in the kitchen, she braced herself against the heavy oak butcher-block table for a moment, and then smirked wickedly at him,

"Malfoy, how do you feel about spicy food?"

He knew his face was giving away too much as his brow furrowed, but he shrugged as if blasé, hoping not to seem too curious. She was suddenly smiling with her face over a steaming copper pot, inhaling deeply with a face that spoke of comfort and nostalgia. He felt he was observing a intimate moment, that was the same face he made when he embraced his mother in private. She gave a hum of satisfaction though, and that stopped him from turning away,

"I have leftovers from visiting my Grann earlier this week. _Barbacoa kochon, diri ak sos pwa_ and crab, oh and I think I have some _picklese_ to go on the side..." She trailed off as she rummaged in the icebox, and gave a solitary 'Ha!' when her hand came up with a small jar of what looked like shredded vegetables,

"I knew I ate all the _kibbeh_ , but I'm glad I left this for today..." She begun moving with a frenzy, darting around the small kitchen for a knife, a lime, two bowls and plates, spoons, napkins, a ladle. She finally stopped with a gusty exhale, and then chuckled at his quizzical face,

"You haven't understood a word I've said, have you?" He chuckled, gestured for her to take a seat, and served the food per her instructions. He knew she likely wouldn't admit it, but she needed to not exhaust herself again. They ate in relative silence, only her satisfactory hums, and his controlled breathing—what she called _kochon_ was shredded pork and it was Spicy—but she didn't seem to notice his efforts not to cough.

"I am assuming this is a regional cooking of some kind that your Grann likes to make?"

"Yes she likes to make it, but it's her regional cuisine—Grann and my dad are from Haiti—Dad emigrated in 1968. Grann stayed...I just got back from visiting..." She trailed off as if there was more information, but he'd heard enough rumors about her estranged parents not to pry. The silence was deafening until she inhaled and whispered,

"It's why your calling me a Mudblood used to bother me so much..." he flinched at the slur, "It wasn't my first time dealing with xenophobia, the kids in primary school called me a half-breed because Mum was English and Dad was a immigrant."

"I'm sorry Granger!" It had exploded out of his mouth and he was mortified at his inability to not say anything, but she gave a sad smile, accepting the sincerity of the statement rather than begrudging his lack of tact. For some reason, Merlin only knew why, he plowed on,

"I was a shite...Wait I saw your parents in Diagon Alley once-" She cut him off with a delicately quiet snort and a tapered finger in the air,

"You saw my mother speaking to Lavender Brown's father in Flourish and Blotts that day. Dad had the flu and stayed home."

"Oh. Well you look like enough to your mother, except for the hair. I assume the curls are your father's doing?" He used a light tone, trying to jest her away from a topic that was rapidly making her melancholic. Her mouth ripped up in that sad smile again,

"I think I look the most like Grann, there's a portrait of her in my workroom. Follow me."

She led him from the kitchen to the warded room, but this time instead of crackling and shimmering ominously, the barrier seemed to push into his skin only slightly before yielding to his entry. The same white trim was repeated here over buttercream walls, shelves lined every wall and were either stacked with potions books or stuffed with vial racks and ingredients in various bottles and flasks, all manner of dried herbs hung from the rafters. Upon closer inspection, each vial and flask were carefully labelled in her precise cursive, complete with a brewing versus expiration date.

The only void in the shelving made room for a portrait, a cubit high and two cubits wide, inside a mahogany frame. The name plate on the frame read 'Esthér Anaïca Madeleine la Granger, 1926—' with a space, he assumed for her death date later on. He was slightly shocked to note that it was a magical portrait. In it was a softly snoring older woman sitting in a high-backed carved wooden chair, crinkles all about her eyes as she was slightly smiling, even in her sleep. Despite an overall complexion resembling expensive chocolate, the skin of her cheeks gave off an ember red glow and were smattered with freckles just like Granger's. This woman had the same high cheeks, heart-shaped face, delicate French button nose, and the same shape of dark curls erupting from under a violently colorful geometric patterned head-wrap. She wearing a style of drop-sleeved cotton chemise in white, a white lace shawl around her shoulders, and a necklace made from what appeared to be many very large crocodile teeth. This woman had gravitas, even in a dozing portrait. He wondered if she would use her charisma to overpower with healthy fear, or warm affection, as her glowing cheeks seemed to imply. Somehow, if she was anything like her granddaughter, it was likely equal measures of both.

Draco was now at a distance that his earlier occupation with her jewelry resurfaced for lack of anything else to do, and Granger was gazing at the painting, paying him little to no attention. He discovered the torc had river otter heads on the end caps, the large stylized eyes set with onyx, whisker pores etched into the metal, and sharp teeth hanging from half-smiling mouths. The tiny pouch was still an enigma, and when she spotted him looking at it resting on her sternum, she reached up to hold it ever so softly, as if it were made of eiderdown. She seemed to know he was curious despite his best efforts to keep his face impassive, and answered his unasked question,

"It's called a _gris-gris_. It's like an amulet, in a way, for protection. Grann made it for my Dad, now it's mine."

The motion had brought her hands back into his field of vision. While some of the markings on her hands were in fact scars, the majority of the paler flesh, taupe against the usual caramel—were tattoos in whitish ink, just the slightest hint of blue gray—consisting of runes, arithmancy, alchemy, and tiny cross-hatched images like upstairs on her bedroom floor. As far as he knew, there was only one family in wizarding Britain that practiced ritual tattooing, and that was the Noble House of Black, and it was usually reserved for the Head of House. His mother had given him his first one a respectful three days after his father's death, his own were in black ink, and hidden under a glamour at the moment. This he did quirk an eyebrow at, and looked down at her when he heard her abrupt chuckle,

"Yes, Malfoy, to an extent, I am wearing a bit of your inheritance. Sirius Black taught me how, gave me my first one when I was fourteen to declare me the Head of the House of Granger. It was one of the only traditions of his family that he didn't despise." She paused, then spoke again tentatively,

"May I see your hands as they really are?"

...

She'd framed the question carefully. Hermione knew asking to see them all would mean exposing his faded Dark Mark, which he would likely balk at, if if his thick linen dress shirt was anything to go by. But perhaps asking to see just his hands was innocuous enough that he would remove the glamour she already knew was there. Sirius had worn his tattoos openly, but traditionally they were kept hidden, so adversaries could not be aware of the protections you'd given yourself and the House of Black. Malfoy hesitated, likely for this very reason, then spread his fingers wide as if stretching his hands at his sides. Lines of ebony erupted from under his shirt sleeves—ogham twined with nordic runes—making his alabaster skin look slightly blue around the edges of each character. She couldn't stop the inquiry falling from her mouth,

"Black Everlasting ink, woad, and hearth ash from the Manor?" He nodded and replied,

"And Black Manor, with essences of blessed thistle and peony. Yours?"

She admired that he had worked the ancient woad blessing tying him to the land, with thistle for strength, protection, and the banishment of evil, as well as peony for forgiveness. It was a subtle balance, but it suited his historic goals for himself and his family. The lines and characters followed the sinewy quality of his hands and long fingers—they suited Him.

"Muggle tattoo ink in white, essences of lavender, rosemary, dittany, and several different hearth ashes."

Hermione watched his eyebrows rise, and if she had to put a word to his expression, she'd likely have chosen 'impressed'. It was a new, but not unpleasant mien, and likely made rare appearances on his face. She remembered why she'd chosen those elements with bittersweet fondness: lavender for cleansing, banishing evil, rosemary for remembrance, dittany for physical healing, hearth ash to bind the safety of home to her person. There was a tinge of awe in his expression as he looked down at her for his next inquiry,

"May I ask which hearth ashes you chose, and just when this was done?" She felt a twinge of grief skitter through her, and she felt herself trying to keep it off her face when she decided to answer him. The War was long over, after all, and the protections were still active, but somewhat obsolete.

"My childhood home, my Grann's kitchen in Haiti, Number 4 privet Drive, Godric's Hollow, The Burrow, and Number 12 Grimmauld Place. Sirius did the first one at the beginning of fourth year, and I did the rest of them the summer after sixth year. Sirius had been gone for a year, but I remembered how, and Harry had been left the townhouse. I had just Obliviated my parents, and we were getting ready to go Horcrux hunting. So I took the Knight Bus to Godric's Hollow and Privet Drive in order to get what I needed. No one has ever seen them except Sirius and Kingsley, and now you. Harry still doesn't know."

His mouth was hanging slightly open at this final declaration, and she couldn't resist the smug smirk she felt on her face, or the giggle that followed it.

"You protected them all, and you kept it secret?! He still doesn't know?" Magical tattoos were painful to receive, never mind to give one's self, and he was clearly reacting to that fact without his usual reserve.

"Yes, I did, and no, there's no reason for him to know. It's probably obsolete at this point, anyway." He snorted with disdain,

"I can assure you it's not, Granger. Potter was hit with a _Reducto_ five months ago bringing in Rookwood before I joined the DMLE, and Ginevra told me it blew him back like an _Expelliarmus_ , left a massive bruise, but he rather markedly did Not explode. Quite baffling to his fellow Aurors and the staff at St Mungos, but she was just happy he was alive."

It was suddenly her turn to be slack-jawed, and this seemed to fracture the severity of his face. He was grinning at her. She felt her earlier skittering anxiety and sadness grow warm, fluttering south from the base of her throat to swell in her rib-cage for just a moment. Draco Lucius Malfoy was grinning at her, and they had just shared a secret. It had taken three years, but they'd apparently finally figured out how to talk to each other like equals—like friends—and it felt lovely to have moved past their graduation truce or his distant professionalism. She found herself grinning back.


	6. Chapter 6

He'd forgotten how easily she had always soaked up information about magic, how thoroughly she retained detailed information, and he'd watched her face as she added up the attributes of his tattoos. Knowing what she now knew, she could have easily done the Slytherin thing and held his need for his family's forgiveness over his head, but she didn't. He could practically watch her thought process skim past that, a moment of speculation, and then arriving at a satisfied expression. It was the sort of face his mother made when she approved of the cut and fit of someone's clothing. Granger's tacit approval of his tattoos, particularly considered the one she couldn't see, was oddly affirming. He felt a preening smirk on his face and a bubble of warmth in his cheeks as he asked about hers.

She answered as if she hadn't made something incredibly powerful, as if she hadn't seen the possibilities of magic as infinite, and applied it to her needs as she saw fit. It was the sort of complexity that a pureblood would never attempt for fear of broaching the bounds of tradition. His mind was spinning, the reserved stoic he was raised to be was disgusted to feel his mouth falling slightly open and his eyes widening ever so slightly. She'd managed to balance so much, and he was trying to figure out all the possible ramifications of those choices.

He was still pondering her choices in hearth ash after telling her about Potter. It constituted an odd compulsion in her presence that anything he thought about just would not stay in his head,

"That's how you didn't go mad!"

It was then that he realized he'd been silent and smiling at her for a long moment, and that spitting anything out of his mouth without context was something she could actually keep up with. She reasoned nearly immediately that he was talking about Bellatrix, that horrific Easter holiday, and she flinched. Her smile collapsed like a stone ruin. He suddenly sucked in a loud breath and started stammering, his hands held toward her and spread in supplication,

"I'm sorry, I was—I was just amazed at the strength of the magic you made—that it kept you all safe—I wasn't trying to make you remember!"

She had flinched back from his approaching hands during his stupid rant, but had stilled at his final declaration. She was staring at her feet with a tight jaw and glistening eyes and now that he looked as well, there were more tattoos across all the tops of her feet like lace socks. He heard his own awed whisper,

"Everywhere you walked and everything you touched—Brilliant—you've been walking ahead of them for years—you didn't do that our first couple years at Hogwarts."

She giggled, and it grew into a full, if a little watery, and boisterous laugh,

"You are the last person on Earth I would have thought to have noticed something like that!"

"I'm observant, perhaps even a little hyper-vigilant, it's a habit I picked up from my mother. You had done something different—of course I was bound to take notice—it just didn't mean anything until now."

She chuckled, but it was both a grief-ridden and maliciously dark, and whispered the way one might murmur a prayer,

"Constant Vigilance."

...

She turned from the room, she knew he hadn't meant to remind her, frighten her, or likely hadn't realized he'd complimented her or her magic. She needed to leave the room, she needed to do something with her hands. She could make tea, she supposed, or go read, or start working on her written report to Kingsley, but she hadn't been out to her garden in days. The sunshine, the smell of dirt, the mindlessness of manual labor, these things would help smooth over her muddled emotions and the roiling feeling in her stomach.

After a moment, she could hear his quiet measured footsteps behind her, following her into the kitchen. He seemed to have developed the tact to not speak and that was fine with her. She didn't turn around or look at him, but she held a pair of garden gloves out to him.

Once there were through to the gardens, she did turn to watch him, seeing his eyes roam over and note the species, no doubt mentally listing their uses. She understood that had he never participated in a war, that this was likely still a habit he would have, but it appeared that the habit had become frenetic. He held his body taunt, like a bowstring, seeming to always be a little on edge. It was a sensation she could relate to.

Garden gloves were the answer—research work—parchment and notes—books to be read in squashy chairs—effort and determination—growing things in the sunshine—the smell of fresh ink bottles. She knew the clawing, squeezing breathlessness of a panic attack, and she knew the stinking, cold cortisol sweat-soaked sheets of a night terror. She knew Harry did, she knew Ginny did. She imagined Malfoy knew as well. Her personal experience had led her to seek the little pleasures.

Hermione knew that she had grown out of being a chipper morning person, had grown into someone whose whole body melted with satisfaction at a morning coffee, growled and hissing at birds or Crookshanks or bad dreams, whatever woke her before eight o'clock, otherwise known as 'a reasonable hour to be awake.' She abjectly refused early mornings, but if she was up anyway, and had coffee, she could admit that she had liked watching the sun rise on a Saturday morning through the Hogwarts library windows. She had grown out of her need to micromanage the deeds of others. Her temper had changed—she no longer became angry over every little annoyance, irrationality, or flippant comment. It took her much longer to get angry now—a slow boil—but when her temper did turn these days, it was explosive. Harry had said that in the past she had been a constantly trickling volcano, but when she and Ron split, and she'd lost her temper, he'd called her 'Hiroshima'. Better to not linger on that thought.

She began pulling weeds, breathing in deeply the scent of the herbs she'd brushed against. The smell of the sea breeze seemed to sweep across her skin tangibly, warm in the sun calmed her. There was a flash of shade in her view, as Malfoy sat across from her and began pulling weeds. He didn't look up at her when she stopped moving, he appeared to be applying all of his attention to decimating the weed population. She knew even in school, that he was studious, as much as he tried to cover up his academia and work ethic with brashness and trouble-making. She had never really expected him to participate in anything that involved dirt. Hermione sat for a moment watching his concise work, how we knew what to pull and what to leave. He didn't even seem to notice the black soil getting on his dress pants, or that he had brushed his fringe out of his face and left a smudge on his brow. It was a strong contrast to the mulish ways she always confronted when trying to get any kind of attention-span out of either Harry or Ron.

Thinking about Ron occasionally led her to episodes of either weeping or throwing frangibles, so she let her mind go blank. It was Occlumency, essentially, but it was also bliss. To not think, and simply be for a while, was lovely.

...

Draco hadn't felt this calm in ages. The sun was beginning to set, and was only then that he realized they'd been silent for hours. The garden had been cleared of interloping plants, and Granger had produced a small curved knife and was deftly setting it against joints in plants to get perfect angled cuttings. She'd pulled rosemary, thyme, sage, and marjoram into a bouquet garni and stood, turning towards a collection of hutches at the back of the garden.

He immediately knew what was coming and before he could stop her, she'd pulled a scarred Ixworth cockerel from the coop, wrung it's neck and used her little harvest knife to behead the beast. She was allowing the blood to dribble out into a small bowl of dirt on the South side of the garden, and he briefly wondered if she knew the ramifications of feeding blood to the land. No, he was talking about Granger, of course she knew.

Something about the idea of her killing anything, even livestock, bothered him and he wasn't sure why. He supposed it had something to do with knowing she had been lethal in the war, knowing she had a vicious streak, but never having seen that lethality in person, and certainly not applied so clinically. She looked up at him finally, and seemed to sense his apprehension,

"I was going to make _coq au vin_. He'd stopped protecting the hens, I had a fox in last week."

She was still acting a little mechanically, it was the only thing that kept him from being more disturbed by watching her end a life. She'd done it quickly, mercifully, and she wasn't wasting the blood. Even when he was young he'd thought that messy butchery was wasteful and crude, to the farmer and the beast, so even as he recoiled in general, he approved of the respect she'd shown to the process.

This time when he entered the kitchen, he noted that she'd hung up one of the cockerel's feet to dry over the hearth, and she was plucking feathers rapidly between dunks in a pot of hot water. He pulled a knife from the block and rummaged through some wooden bins along one wall for root veg to cut up, in order to speed things along. She needed to eat a go back to bed. Even if the work they'd done in the garden wasn't overtly strenuous, she needed rest, and he'd forgotten that in the tranquility of the quiet day.


	7. Chapter 7

Hermione cooked in near-silence, murmuring her thanks at his work on the _mise en place_. When she put a bottle of red in front of him on the work table, she felt ready to talk again,

"Sorry about that, I haven't had a lot of human interaction lately. I think I needed a break from talking."

He had quirked an eyebrow at the wine, his upper lip the tiniest bit raised at the label, and she couldn't stop a feminine snort at his facial expression,

"Don't worry Malfoy, this one is for cooking with." His near-sneer immediately cleared, giving a chuckle of his own,

"Sorry Granger, but there are some things I am still a snob about, and booze is one of them. Am I expected to open this?"

"Yes please. The church key hurts my hands." She gestured to the corkscrew on the tale. This time his crows feet crinkled, and the brow was decidedly quizzical,

"Explain." His tone was clinical and professional again, he was clearly assessing this information as her de facto Healer. She felt like she ought the have a bit of whiplash from all the abrupt changes in his tone, but as he didn't seem to notice, she acquiesced with the truth,

"I have mild rheumatism in my fingers. Tight squeezing and fine motor function like doing up small buttons can be painful sometimes, mostly first thing in the morning and at the end of the day."

He nodded. Perhaps he knew that it was a common side-effect of the _Cruciatus_ , or perhaps he thought it was congenital, or the result of some past injury. She didn't think she wanted him to confirm what he knew.

He opened the wine, she cooked. Malfoy inquired as to where he could find some 'decent' wine, and she had chuckled as she pointed out the trap door in the floor to the wine and root cellar. His patrician features were momentarily hesitant, but he'd gone down anyway. When he'd emerged, she was plating and he'd found an incredibly dusty bottle of Beaujolais.

When he'd done the dishes with his wand, Hermione realized they'd not only had a civil, but an interesting bit of academic debate over dinner. She wanted to read in front of the hearth in the parlor for a bit before bed, but he'd pulled a face and said she should go back to bed. He headed for the parlor as if to camp out there though, and that had chafed her sense of proper hospitality.

"Malfoy," her tone had been too hard, he'd given an infinitesimal flinch so she softened it, "there's no need to sleep rough down here. There's a guest suite upstairs. Follow me."

...

Draco knew it would be rude to protest, so he followed. It was well into the evening, and he'd woken up before dawn. He was suddenly aware of just how knackered he was.

The door was down the hall from hers, over the potions workroom if he had guessed correctly from the lingering herbaceous smell. This room was arranged much like hers, it had the same white trim, but with more masculine caramel colored walls. The bookshelves were smaller, dominating only the walls facing the hall instead of the corners, the reading chair was a rich ivory velvet. She pointed to a wardrobe and stand mirror next to the window overlooking the back garden where her room had the window seat,

"There should be some pajamas in there. If not I'm sure you can Transfigure something."

"Thanks Granger. Goodnight."

"Goodnight Malfoy."

There were a set of Turkish cotton pajamas, and it was while buttoning up the sleep shirt that he had two simultaneous and sleepy thoughts:

One: every textile in this house looked simple, classic, and inexpensive, but was in fact the most luxurious version of itself. It was the kind of quiet wealth that his mother approved of aesthetically whilst draping herself in silks and furs when his father was alive. Lucius had always preferred more visual status symbols, but his mother was more understated. Sure, she'd grown used to ball gowns and diamonds at her husband's behest, but since he died, she wore simpler stock. He hadn't been able to glean much from Granger's jewelry, but his mother's game had just backfired and told him something about her, instead.

Two: Hermione Granger was wealthy. Not the 'raised without an awareness of my familial wealth' like Potter who had to be wrangled into a suit by his wife. Not the 'newly awarded Order of Merlin First Class' or decidedly 'Entrepreneurial Bourgeois New Money' of Ronald Weasley wearing brightly colored silk shirts that suited neither his frame or his coloring. No, Hermione Granger came from older money than that. He wondered if it was one generation's worth—it was his understanding that Muggle dentistry was a respected and well-paid occupation, similar to that of a specialist Healer in Wizarding Britain—or if it was like his: Old Money. Could it be possible that if the differences in their birth according to The Sacred Twenty-Eight hadn't existed, that the circumstances of their upbringings would have made them social equals?

The thought kept him awake for some time after he laid down. When he finally decided to ask in the morning, his brain finally stopped whirring, and allowed him rest.

...

Hermione could tell he wanted to ask a question.

It had been nearly an hour since she slogged her way downstairs for coffee to find him already installed in her parlor, drinking what appeared to be his second cup of Assam tea. He was still in the guest pajamas, barefoot, reading a book, but his eyes said that he was only skimming, not comprehending the pages in front of him. She'd obviously only ever seen him in pajamas in the Great Hall in third year, so it took her a moment to look past the informality of his dress. Though she could mentally note that had he really been relaxed, he would have made quite the handsome image.

He'd not bothered to glamour over his tattoos yet, and the way they ran down the corded tendon lines of his hands, and his feet, she now noticed, implied that they were extensive. She shook off the mental question of just where, and how much of him, they covered. His right foot, propped with lazy grace on his left knee, was bouncing ever so slightly. His shoulders were pulled up a fraction of an inch from their natural position, like he was trying to physically hold in a gulp of air, likely loaded with whatever he was so curious about. Hermione knew that holding in a curious, if possibly rude question could be nigh-on physically painful, so she endeavored to put him out of his misery,

"Just ask, Malfoy. I don't think you can physically take holding it in any longer."

She knew her tone was a bit snide, but she'd only had one cup of coffee, and there was only so much she could do about her mood in the morning. Dissatisfying sleep made her cranky, and she never really felt like she got enough sleep anymore to feel truly rested. He exhaled gustily and looked her in the eye for the first time all morning,

"You're brusque in the morning." It wasn't a question, or even really a judgemental statement. Hermione thought his tone implied more that he was surprised by this information.

"Not before, but yes, now I am. I don't sleep well, and it makes me irritable. Anything non-sentient that wakes me up, like an alarm clock, usually ends its existence by being thrown into a wall at some point. Sentient beings that wake me get glared at rather badly. Usually songbirds. They've no right whatsoever to be that happy and chirpy first thing."

It was more than she'd meant to say, but none of it was untrue, so she didn't blush, or clamp her mouth shut after the fact. He was chuckling. Apparently, he could relate to her distaste for mornings, despite the fact that he'd been up for quite a while. He'd taken a deep inhale and his foot was now positively vibrating, then suddenly stilled as he began to speak,

"Were your parents wealthy?" She nodded. She didn't want to explain about dentists, but he nodded back as if he had figured as much and knew enough about the profession to make an estimation of their income.

"Do you come from Old Money?" She could tell the letters were mentally capitalized from his tone, and she held in a slightly bitter laugh. It came out anyway as a snarky chuckle.

"Yes, Malfoy, I do. Why do you ask?"

"I was wondering if the pureblood bullshit hadn't existed, whether or not we would have been social equals based on wealth." She agreed that blood fanaticism was a crock of shit, and was pleased to think that he had arrived at the same natural conclusion over the last four years. She instead pondered on money for a moment, brows furrowed as she worked out the numbers in her head,

"Considering the exchange rate between a Gourde, the Franc versus the Euro, the British Pound, and a Galleon, it's possible. I know of your family's wealth only in abstraction, so I couldn't say, and I'm not going to ask." He chuckled, but gave no explanation for his amusement.

"The Malfoy wealth is diversified, but our old wealth comes from land ownership, agricultural leasing, and king-making." It was her turn to chuckle,

"The oldest money from the House of Granger is not nearly so reputable, so it's likely that while we could have been social equals based on maths alone, you would still be viewed as a social better." His responding tone and smirk was the kind of light ribbing she was more likely to expect from Harry or Ginny, but it didn't feel as disturbing to be on the receiving end of as she might have otherwise assumed,

"May I inquire as to the nature of that disreputable, foundational wealth?" She laughed aloud now as she knew the answer was likely to shock him, then answered as if discussing the weather on an overcast afternoon,

"Piracy, and it's associative trades."

Her bland tone had been worth the effort, if for nothing else but his flabbergasted expression. To anyone else, his eyes may only have widened a fraction, but for him it was practically googly-eyed. She held in a belly laugh and gave him a smirk reminiscent of his own over her second builder's mug of coffee. It was clear he would need an explanation, but she wanted to watch his face as he reasoned it out, so she gave him a vague clue,

"Grann's estate is on _la_ _Île de la Tortue_ —Tortuga."

The resulting fractional parting of his lips a moment later might has well have been slack-jawed and fish-like. The belly laugh escaped her finally. This was officially the highlight of her morning.

...

Narcissa Malfoy would have been proud of the side-stepped answer about his family's net worth being abstract to her. It was exactly the sort of thing one didn't discuss in polite company in finite terms, if one had the social standing to know better. Their tête-à-tête continued, he could feel himself smirking a bit and using a teasing tone usually reserved for friends, but didn't stop himself. The mental spar they had going felt natural and comfortable, despite their rather horrible history. He couldn't help thinking that this was natural, the result of years of heated bickering having gone soft with years of age and experience.

She kept breaking his facial façade of impartiality with the things coming out of her mouth. Her smirk told him that she was wickedly amused, just by telling him the truth. It had been somewhat embarrassing yesterday, but it was fast becoming amusing this morning. He found her rather liked her full mouth set in smirk that could be sardonic or lethal at a moment's notice. He found he liked her loud laughter, and being the cause of it, when he imagined he ought to be mortified about looking like a fish out of water. This was the kind of teasing, conspiratorial ease he felt sometimes with Ginevra Potter and sometimes with the Boy Wonder himself, but it wasn't quite the non-judgemental ease he felt around Blaise. That had taken years, and was the hard-won trust of reluctant lovers. This was past the polite machinations of acquaintance, so perhaps this was friendship. Perhaps he was friends with both Mr. and Mrs. Potter. Perhaps he ought to accept the next dinner invitation.

Granger had been saying something, but he'd missed it with everything else he'd been thinking about,

"Come again, Granger?"

"I said, I know that the Malfoy family history in England goes back to Hastings, but tell me more about this king-making business of yours." It was his turn to give a bark-like laugh from his navel up.

He uncrossed his legs, set the book on the side-table, and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees in an air of secrecy. He even looked furtively to his left and right, then spoke like he was giving an academic lecture, albeit from a posh perspective,

"It goes back further that that, Granger. My family went to Normandy with Gaange Hrólfr, also known as Rolf The Walker, or Rollo. We did not bear the surname ' Malfoy' at the time, we used the Viking surnaming standards of the day."

She sat up straighter, like she had in school, and he wouldn't have been shocked if she'd pulled out parchment and started taking notes, but she didn't. He'd paused too long apparently, because she looked near-to-bursting with curiosity,

"Well you can't just leave it there! Tell me about it?"

"Only if you promise to explain this piracy business."

"Naturally."

So she poured him a third cup of tea, and he'd told her. Told her about Håkon Gráðvaraug Thorsson, who'd had a daughter named Sprota with a Breton woman after arriving in Normandy, and went on to have two further sons. He looked up to see her eyes like globes, and he gestured for her to speak as she was clearly restraining herself from interrupting,

"Sprota, the _more danico_ wife of William the First, was—" He interjected,

"Sprota Håkonsdóttir, daughter of Håkon 'Silver Eye' or 'Spear Eye', depending on linguistic interpretation. May I continue?" She nodded with fresh determination to listen.

He went on to explain that Sprota had given birth to Richard I, William had died, and she had later married Eperleng, and begat Rudolf d'Ivry. He explained that the family inherited Chateau d'Ivry via Sprota's brother Gunnar, his son Magnus Gunnarsson inheriting it because Rudolf's daughter Emma, and her husband Osbern didn't want it. How Magnus' son, Lucian Magnusson was the first given the epithet 'mal foi' for refusing to convert to Christianity. How Lucian starting using the epithet as his surname because the Viking naming system was going out of style in Normandy with the popularity of the New Religion, because it sounded more imposing, and because he hoped to wear the slur like armor.

She'd reacted to this information by rubbing her palm over her left forearm, where he knew a slur lived on her body too. Best not examine that line of thinking too closely.

He explained that Lucian's son, Aemilius, meaning 'rival', had been raised to the surname Malfoy. How Aemilius was similar to Lucius, in that he'd been against Robert I, and hoped his son would be the same. Aemilius was not pleased with his son, Armand Malfoy, who supported Robert's son, William the Conqueror, and was given the land in Wiltshire as thanks in 1066. He went on to explain that the nearest town to the Malfoy family seat was Calne, which had been founded in 978AD, the site of early Anglo Saxon court of Witenagemot.

When he'd finished, he'd gone to take another sip of his tea, only to snarl at the cup when he found it empty. She'd been absorbing everything, so he'd stalked to the kitchen for a refill. He was vaguely aware of her following him into the kitchen and refilling her Muggle coffee mug to his left, when she asked a question that sounded more like a statement,

"So your family never gave up the Old Religion?" This was a question that in a public forum could have been incredibly damaging, but she had hesitated asking as if she knew that already, and per her moral code, should likely keep it to herself,

"No. But I would prefer you never mention that I confirmed this fact."

"Of course not! The Wizarding world in Europe may have closed itself off to Muggles to stay safe, but enough Christianity worked its way into the culture that the Old Religion was viewed as suspicious."

"And several of the old holy Rites were outlawed by the Ministry over time. It's part of why my family has always been viewed as Dark—and why we have historically been sorted into Slytherin—we were all raised to the Old Faith and we knew we needed to protect that fact from others while serving our own ambitions."

She sipped her coffee, brows furrowed again. He waited, sipping his own tea.

Granger gave a clipped nod when she had clearly arrived at a mental destination,

"Grann and Dad and I aren't Christian either. Mum is an Anglican—well, I imagine they both are now. Henri Granger was raised by a _vodou prètre_ , after all, but Wendell and Monica Wilkins of Sydney, Australia, are likely bored Anglicans."

"Back up, Granger, are you telling me your Grann is—" he found himself setting his tea down for fear of spilling with his sudden need to move, his mind racing,

"Let's go get dressed, Granger. I have the feeling I need to take a walk to absorb everything you're about to tell me." She smirked again, and walked up the stairs.


	8. Chapter 8

Hermione dressed in jeans, a camisole, and a long cable-knit cardigan. She didn't lock the front door, and didn't really hesitate to leave, she could hear him behind her on the stairs. She led Malfoy toward the coast, as between the cliffs there was a pleasant little cove with an actual sandy beach, something of a luxury in the UK. When she plopped herself in the sand at the top of the cove, she finally looked over at him, she saw he dressed in a pair of black jeans with a slate grey button down and a black vest. He was sitting next to her, elbows on propped up knees. His sleeves were still securely buttoned around his wrists and she found it really bothered her. She was instantly tempted to reach across and roll them up, but she assumed it would start a fight. He just looked too stiff for a late morning jaunt at the beach, but he sounded relaxed enough when he opened his mouth,

"I thought you were going to tell me about piracy as we walked Granger. I might get antsy just sitting here." She nodded at his honesty,

"If you get antsy, we can look for shells. If that's not enough, we can walk back and prune the fruit trees, Merlin knows they need it."

"And here I thought I was being honest when I said I wouldn't do your chores." They both chuckled at that.

"So what do you want to know about piracy? Usually, a person owns a ship and then it's commandeered, and the surviving crew votes in a captain—it's all very democratic—"

"Ha Ha Granger. Start at the beginning."

"With the House of Granger or the House of _de La Grange_?" His head snapped around to face her,

"That's one of the oldest houses of nobility in Europe, from well before the Statute of Secrecy—"

"I know, but it's all the wrong side of the sheets, regardless."

" _de La Grange_ , then."

"How's your French history after 1066?" He shrugged his shoulders, but his upper lip was arranged in a pucker as if to say 'so-so'. There was a noncommittal noise to accompany the upper lip, and it suddenly struck her how like Harry he was.

"Familiar with Jean de La Grange? He lived from 1325 to 1402, was a prelate and politician during reign of Charles V and VI. He was a reigning member of papal curia in Avignon."

"The name rings a faint bell."

"Well despite being a bishop, not that it was uncommon at the time, he had a mistress, and several bastard sons. None of the sons were ever acknowledged formally, so they bore the surname _LaGrange_ instead of _de La Grange_. It was a publicly recognized bastard line in France for centuries. That part isn't important, although they were mostly merchants or publicans. There ended up being a sole female heir, _Acanth_ _é Hephzibah LaGrange_. She was born between 1599 and 1605, she ran Paris brothel, and her husband took her surname."

"And no one argued about a woman inheriting everything?"

"Of course not, because technically, her husband inherited everything."

"But he took her surname."

"Exactly. She made sure it was legal for her to run everything by owning everything—she just didn't own it on paper. You want proof how unimportant that husband was—I couldn't find any records of his first name, or his former surname. If memory serves, he died mysteriously after she bore her son and heir between 1620 and 1623."

He stood and paced the beach for seashells while she explained that Acanthé's son left France in his early twenties according to her research. This son and heir, Gareth ' _Le_ _Garrot_ ' LaGrange, ended up reappearing in Haiti as a Brethren of the Coast in the late 1640s. He had changed his surname and had, therefore, started the Haitian House of Granger. Hermione told Draco how she'd only found records of Gareth in Haiti because the English and the Spanish had put out warrants for his arrest on charges of piracy.

They walked back towards the house as she explained that Gareth had married a West African woman named Abeni. Abeni had been brought to Haiti as a young girl to be a slave and was said to be a practitioner of voodoo. Hermione told him how there were records showing that Acanthé had gone to Haiti to see them wed, and stayed for a year or so. Acanthé had bought a brothel and stayed long enough to see her grandson born. Gareth's son, grandson, and great-grandson also married either former slaves or mestizo women of Taíno descent.

All of these men were also apparently pirates, although they seemed to double their income by owning property and businesses associated with either ship-building, shipping, or pubs, that their wives ran. When piracy went out of fashion, the Grangers still built ships, ran import/export, even did the occasional bit of smuggling. Their profits went to buying land, including what was now the family estate on Tortuga, the shipyard in Port-de-Paix, and several square miles of coffee and _vetiv_ plantations in the mountains east of Port-au-Prince. The family apparently went on having mostly legitimate businesses—she tried to explain that this was not uncommon in the Caribbean—but Malfoy just chuckled and said he could relate.

"That changed when Dad emigrated to the UK. He came here to attend dental college. That's where he met my Mum, Helene Marie Wilkes, whose family name means 'from Wiltshire' originally, and they'd made their family seat in Bedfordshire when it was a part of the kingdom of Mercia. The Wilkes were always landed gentry, they still are. I have two great-uncles in Parliament, one in the House of Lords, and his younger brother was voted into the Commons as an MP. They despise each other, naturally."

He nodded stiffly, his nose in the air, but she could tell he was holding in a chuckle,

"Naturally."

...

Draco would never in all his life guessed that Hermione Granger was capable of humor. Fastidiousness, nagging, prim politesse, certainly. But posh humor, no, never. The odd thought slipped into his head and was quickly shaken off: Blaise would like her.

Blaise was his best friend, his on-again-off-again lover, and trusted confidant, but he sort of doubted that they'd actually get along. Blaise was something of a lothario, and he imagined his friend's dedication to opulence, deviance, and skirt-chasing might offend her sensibilities.

Blaise would like her though, Draco could easily mentally picture her lecturing the man on feminism, the struggles of the working poor, and he would pretend that she'd put his Roman-Eagle nose out of joint over it, but he'd be smirking devilishly underneath.

As they returned to the house, she made a beeline for her notes on the dining table and he excused himself to the parlor. He was calm now, but he wanted for a squashy chair and a bit of a think to himself.

Blaise had always been Draco's polar opposite, it's what made him a good friend in the first place, and it's what had made Draco so attracted to him as a partner. Blaise was playful when he was reserved, methodical in anger where he was explosive, balanced when he was obsessive, affectionate where he was critical. It had always irked him as much as he'd found it comforting, and he wondered whether or not they could all be friends under this new world order.

He wondered if he should tell her the whole truth about him and Blaise. He found he wanted to tell her, despite that they'd both had other relationships, and were expected to marry other people—anonymous hypothetical women—in the future.

She didn't seem to type to balk at the information in any way, never mind think less of them for it. It seemed like the sort of information friends might share in private. But that was not for today, as it wasn't his secret alone. He'd have to talk to Blaise first. The way he'd already talked to Granger about family history wasn't secret, per se, but it was intimate, it informed who you became, and that lent insight to really knowing a person.

He winced to realize that he had unknowingly added a layer to her insecurities with his slurs and his taunting, and that it had likely exacerbated that know-it-all behavior he'd so detested at the time. Draco also reflected that it was that swotty behavior—her consistent besting of him in all things academic—coupled with Potter besting him in Quidditch, that had first led him to question the veracity of blood supremacy. So perhaps it hadn't been all bad.

At the time, Lucius being on the School Board of Governors had been a curse, as all the House Points reports and final grades had been provided to him per term. Draco had known back then that he'd be cuffed for failing to perform well, and that any talk-back about it to his father would earn him a backhanded slap about the mouth. It had never ceased to make him feel small, powerless, and pliable to his father's iron will.

In that way, his parole at St. Mungos had also been a blessing in disguise. He'd been away from Lucius five or six days a week, and there was nothing the Malfoy patriarch could have done about it. His displeasure at Draco being forced to do menial work, to touch, interact with, clean, and heal what Lucius called the 'dregs' of wizarding society, was never eased.

Every time Lucius had growled about his heir doing menial labor, Draco had asked if his father would prefer he violated the terms of his parole and ended the family line in Azkaban. Every time the man had sat at breakfast and railed against the Ministry for the financial 'blood-letting' and the denigration of the family name, Draco had blandly inquired whether his father would have preferred to be punished under the Dark Lord's regime, which could have meant being eaten by Nagini at the self-same breakfast table. Once when his father spit and snarled about blood traitors and mudbloods, Draco had watched his father move to strike him in the face with his walking cane, sans wand, per the man's house arrest, after he'd given a sardonic reply and he'd shocked himself by catching the thing in air and holding it fast. Draco remembered the shock of discovering at nineteen years of age that he didn't like being hit.

Blaise had never been struck by anyone save Draco himself, one time, and Blaise had treated it as nearly unforgivable. He was right to. It was degrading. Blaise's upbringing had consisted of his mother's melancholic affection, if a little overbearing, and the consistency of his successive step-fathers' neglect. Draco knew that Blaise stalwartly ignored how much he'd hated his step-fathers, resented that his own father had died when he was very small, resented looking in the mirror most days for his resemblance to a dead man. Resented the sad smile his mother wore when she looked at his face, all nostalgia, and not enough attention paid to the living son right in front of her.

Suddenly there was noise and movement, a knock, the scraping noise of a chair on the floor, scratchy parchment crinkling under open palms, and soft bare feet treading on wood floor. Draco blinked several times to clear his vision and rubbed absently at his knees, which always protested when he stayed too long in one attitude. He'd known immediately what Granger had meant about rheumatism. Minister Shacklebolt was back, it must be time for tea, and therefore no time to linger in his own thoughts any further.

...

Hermione watched as Malfoy seemed to float towards the kitchen like an automaton, he must still be lost in his own thoughts. She'd gone into the parlor about an hour ago to find his brow furrowed, and his eyes staring off into the middle distance. It clearly hadn't the time to interrupt him, so she didn't. The silence had been nice, anyway. She'd finished her written report, summarizing her conclusions to be presented to the Wizengamot, and she'd researched a bit more for the historical objects that might be needed going forward, but it turned out her gut instinct was mostly likely the correct route.

Kingsley would be here soon, and she'd enjoyed her time getting to know Malfoy as he was now. She could tell he was still holding back, but then, she did that too. It had been an oddly surreal and intimate experience—sharing family histories—but she liked to think that perhaps they could be friends like he was with Ginny. He might always hold her a bit at arms length, but that was okay, as she was likely to do the same. Hell, she did that with Ginny.

The only person who knew her backwards and forwards was Harry, and she had mentally classified him as a somewhat overprotective brother-by-proxy years ago. The only reason she couldn't keep him at a modicum of distance is because he'd been there for every victory, every moment of weakness, and every defeatist breakdown she'd ever had. Being close to him wasn't an option anymore. Growing friendly with Malfoy might never be wholly possible, but she'd enjoyed his company and conversation, and that would be enough.

She'd have bigger fish to fry soon enough.


	9. Chapter 9

When Draco returned to the Manor two hours later, after tea and polite goodbyes, he headed directly to his study. He wrote Blaise a note in his recognizably angular and corrie-fisted script and sent the scrap of parchment off with his eagle owl:

 _Come over tonight?_

He suddenly remembered Potter's gargantuan stag _Patronus_ , and wondered if he and Blaise could master the spell. It seemed a much more expedient way to send short or urgent messages. He laughed to himself—perhaps Granger could help him and Blaise learn it—before calling for his elf. He needed a snack and a Firewhiskey before dinner with his mother. He had been calm for the last two days, but suddenly he felt the urgent need to move about—do something—or else his skin would get physically itchy rather than just a mental sense of disease. Firewhiskey and then a long walk to visit his leasing farmers and check in with them, should they need anything. No—Firewhiskey whilst on his long walk—that was a much better solution.

He arrived back at home just as the sun was setting, just in time to change for dinner. He could hear his mother laughing at something from down the hall in the small parlor reserved for family only. When he entered the room, she was perched on the chaise, bare feet on the furniture, something his father would never have not commented upon. Good, she deserved to relax, particularly as she'd had a conflicted time while she was grieving. She now looked every bit the wealthy comfortable widow in a bateau-necked dark gray cotton dress, Lucius' viridian velvet housecoat cascading off her shoulders and open about her waist.

Blaise sat across from her, clearly having come from his estate in Italy, as he was wearing an ivory linen suit. The jacket was tossed elegantly over the back of Draco's favorite wingback chair, and Blaise had rolled up his sleeves and removed his boots. Blaise sat with all of the gravitas of an African king, mildly amused, wise, and aware of his own power. His skin looked mahogany in the light from the fire and aubergine in shadow, his tight curls has been recently trimmed tight to his scalp and now resembled ripples in water. It had been almost a month since Draco had seen him, and behind his emotionality at this moment was a shiver of lust. Blaise looked good, he always did, somehow managing to balance impeccable taste with an air of sloppy devil-may-care that made the man roguishly attractive at all times.

Despite understanding the his mother didn't know about, or at the very least would never acknowledge, Draco's relationship with this man did not dampen the soft and possessive affection he felt overtaking him at seeing them like this. Relaxing before dinner, laughing in each other's company—like a family. The incessant almost-itch sensation came back with a vengeance, and he took a deep breath to clear the choking sensation of emotion in his throat. He could feel himself blinking away the mist from his eyes, it just would not do.

...

Blaise looked up at Draco, stoic obstinate bastard that he was, trying to calm himself down. He could see emotion shining in Draco's eyes, and he knew better than to say a word about it with Narcissa in the room. Better to breeze through dinner and talk through it later. It could be like pulling mandrakes sometimes, but whatever was bothering Draco, he'd get it out of him.

...

"Blaise," he sighed deeply into his glass of Firewhiskey, "I'm fine really. I just feel...itchy...anxious. There's no reason behind it so I was going to endeavor to ignore it."

Blaise was making that patient expression at him, like he intended to wait out Draco's fit of pique, until he broke and really expressed what was bothering him. Draco made a mental note never to let Blaise and Ginny team up in any future emotional persistence hunt—they'd be able to force the Great Sphinx to explain her riddles with their eyes alone—surely. Blaise was going to lose at this game tonight.

Draco had already told Blaise about his realizing he actually was friends with the Potter-wife, he'd talked about his time with Granger, healing her, enjoying her company, he'd skimmed the subjects of their conversations. He'd already admitted that he hoped they could be friends with Granger and that he'd considered telling her about their relationship, which Blaise had agreed to, knowing she wouldn't be upset by it. They'd had a chuckle together over Draco's daydream of her nagging Blaise, and agreed that they really should master a _Patronus_ and that Granger would likely help. He'd even explained why he'd gotten choked up in the parlor.

Blaise wasn't going to get anything more out of him, because the thing he was trying to dig at was the least concerning of anything that'd occurred over the last two days. Whatever it was that Granger told the Minister hadn't worked, that merited far more of his concern. Blaise seemed to relent a bit after a few minutes of undaunted staring and sighed,

"Alright, I'll relent for tonight. Let's go to bed."

"Thank you. Regardless of my anxiety, some of us still have to get up on the Ministry's schedule in the morning." Blaise let out a snorting chuckle and led the way from his study to his room.

...

Blaise woke up earlier than usual the next morning, and suddenly understood what Draco had meant about feeling vaguely itchy and anxious, but he didn't mention it aloud. He assumed it was like when someone talked about insects or a rash and it made your skin crawl—sympathetic reaction or something like that—and while Draco hadn't said a lot about the sensation, it'd apparently been enough. Ugh, he needed coffee, it was too early to be up at all, let alone to be thinking.

...

Draco had written her a polite note two days after he left her house explaining that he and a friend would like to learn the _Patronus_ charm, and would she be at all willing to assist. Her reply had been hilarious, in as much as it had challenged several concepts he was sure were central to the universe functioning as intended:

 _Harry taught me and is really a better teacher in regards to Defense, but of course I'd be willing to try and help you learn. I've got to give a speech at the Ministry in a couple weeks, see you there?_

 _HG_

Her penmanship was neat enough to match his mental carcicature of her from school, but the end of each word had little flourishing serifs that he hadnt originally expected. It was the same kind of confident, stylistic approach she'd taken to her wandwork at Hogwarts, but he hadn't considered that it would manifest in her handwriting as well.

It's been three weeks since Draco had last seen Granger. He'd come in to the Auror office this morning, and was going through current case files and research whilst giving off a generalized distaste for the universe over his usual second cup of Assam black tea when Potter marched up to his desk in the sea of desks.

"Hermione's back. She looks good. I never did thank you for your work that day."

"Just doing my job, Potter. I never hesitate putting you back together either."

"Draco, I'm serious. Kingsley had clearly tried and failed and I'm shite at healing spells. The only thing I was able to learn, from Hermione by the way, was to always carry Dittany. Two Unspeakables were found dead." he paused, his face and tone become somber and strident in a way that Draco hadn't seen or heard since the War, "Thank you for helping Hermione."

He nodded with wide eyes, uncomfortable with the emotional tenor of the conversation, and fought the urge to scratch at himself. The almost-itch sensation seemed to get worse when he was uneasy.

"You're welcome Potter. I didn't know anyone from the Department of Mysteries had died."

"Kingsley kept it quiet because of whatever they were working on. Hermione was here last week to address the Wizengamot in a closed court session. Ginny couldn't even get anything out of her over dinner, it was like watching basilisks in a staring contest."

The current ripples of gooseflesh in his skin was currently distracting him from whatever Potter was saying,

"...anyway she and Kingsley are giving a speech in open...I think press will be there too, not sure what that's about..."

Even Blaise had mentioned that he'd gotten the same crawling sensation in his skin over the last three weeks, although it didn't seem to bother him as much as it did Draco. He felt himself give a shiver from stem to stern and was finally able to return his attention to Potter,

"What have you been on about Potter?"

"Ugh, Malfoy, I'll just come get you when it's time to go. And I need your half of the Sterling case report by 11."

They'd been dealing with a lot of common assault and minor hexing incidents lately. It was May, and Smith had tried to give some quibble as if it was all the sudden an epidemic. Even Potter had commented that there seemed to be a rash of bar fights and short non-lethal duels over the last month, and no one seemed to know why. Even the participants seemed foggy as to why violence had broken out in the first place.

A few Aurors had thought that perhaps someone was instigating fights by using _Confundus_ , but it was a quickly dropped theory. There was too wide a spread geographically, and participants ranged widely in age. The only unifying information about everyone involved had been that they were single, which was more a statistic of their arrest rather than some kind of reason for the increased assault rate.

Draco was of the opinion that it was not more than normal, as he'd seen folks coming into St. Mungos and knew this sort of thing happened more frequently in warmer months of the year. It was just better reported now. One positive reaction to war and violence being everywhere, was that no one turned a blind eye to a bully anymore. Aurors were called in immediately if violence broke out, and sometimes even when folks could see a fight brewing. It made for a lot of paperwork on his desk, which he resented, and a more actively ethical society, which he appreciated. Paradoxical, and no less annoying a thought for being true.

He'd been to lunch with Ginny and had finally accepted a dinner invitation for the end of the next week. Ginny was in a markedly better mood for having seen Hermione, and seemed to think whatever her friend had been working on was concluded—'good riddance' she'd said—although he suspected that was far from the truth. All-in-all, he felt fairly satisfied with his day thus far.

Potter came over from his own desk around two o'clock so they could head down to the Wizengamot's forum room, which had a public gallery, as well as seating for the entire high court, a section for reporters, and a high dias in the front for a speaker or two. It was off the Ministry Atrium, rather than down on Level Ten, so that it was more accessible, but it did mean fighting the daily crowd to get in.

Walking with Potter had a dual effect—in fits and spurts the crowd parted or gathered to swamp the man—and Draco recognized the furtive and rapid bounce in the man's heels that spoke of impatience and frustration. Not that anyone else knew, of course, as Potter had plastered on a bland semi-smile, greeted everyone using their name if he knew it or asking if he didn't. Draco also realized after a few minutes of this start-and-stop tempo, that Potter was taking attention away from him in his Auror robes, no one had even noticed him until he passed behind Potter.

Draco wondered if Potter knew what he was doing, but he'd heard a rumor once at school that the Sorting Hat has considered putting this man in Slytherin, so it was likely that he knew exactly what he was doing. Draco was suddenly found himself both a little resentful and a little grateful. Clearly he'd been interacting with too many Gryffindors recently, if his feelings were this tumultuous and conflicted this often. He made a mental note to drunk with Theo and Blaise as soon as possible in order to have a nice evening without all sorts of emotional complications.

If only he'd known that his most recent Gryffindor acquaintance was about to throw even more complications into the hat. Literally.


	10. Chapter 10

Hermione felt as though she might vomit. She'd given her presentation to the Wizengamot with the rest of the Department of Mysteries, and being just one of many people presenting research, going through the question and answer portion, and arguing over the finer points of certain conclusions hadn't felt this fraught. Kingsley has asked her to give the bulk of the presentation—in part because the public recognized and trusted her, and in part because she'd been the one to see this coming and had alerted the Unspeakables—but she was still fidgeting terribly in the forum anteroom. She'd begun goading herself into it under her breath like she used to do at school before important practical exams, as she'd never had any issues with the written portions as long as she'd studied enough,

"You can do this—you're Hermione Jean Granger, you're the brightest witch of your age—you fought and survived a war—you were tortured and you didn't breakyou robbed a bank and rode out on a dragon for Merlin's sake! You went back to school and finished top of your class and you had the highest NEWTS score in four centuries—you did for creature advocacy in a year what no one else could have done in a decade—you tore down Pureblood Clauses of Advantage and ended wergild—you spotted the beginning of this, you can give a bloody speech!"

Her shoulder rolled back, chin up, jaw still a little tight, she strode carefully to the door and followed Kingsley up to the dais.

...

Draco took a seat next to Potter and when he felt someone sit next to him, he turned to see Blaise and Theo. Blaise leaned over and whispered conspiratorially,

"If we're going to be friends with her, we have Got to do something about That Hair." Draco chuckled, and whispered back,

"Blaise—are you aware that your gay is showing?"

"Draco, I'm serious, I don't care if she ends up calling me her fairy godmother until I die, I will fix that monstrosity."

Draco turned to see her approaching the dais from the anteroom, and he could see that it was indeed quite wild today, there were even little amber sparks jumping into the air from the ends of her curls. She'd clearly been running her hands through it out of stress, as her posture was Perfect, even if her shoulders were a bit tight. He'd sat behind her in every Hogwarts exam, he knew what a tightly-wound Granger looked like. He whispered out of the side of his mouth towards Blaise,

"I concede."

He turned as Shacklebolt introduced her—as if that was really necessary—saying that she had spotted the beginnings of a domestic threat to magical Britain and had been working with the Department of Mysteries to thwart it. She was scanning the crowd, but didn't seem to be registering any of the faces. She didn't even stop on Potter, which surprised him. Draco watched as the Minister ceded the podium and she took a deep breath from her already raised shoulders in order to begin talking. You could have heard a knut drop, he hadn't even realized there'd been quiet chatter while the Minster was talking, until it was held in contrast to this moment.

...

"Thank you, Minister Shacklebolt, for the kind introduction. We are here today to discuss first, what this threat is, and how we might all contribute to its solution. We are an island nation, we are an island people. What you perhaps did not know, is that our island currently puts us at risk—this is not a threat to our environment—but rather it is our environment that is now threatening us. There are roughly one hundred island nations on earth, or else islands governed by other nations with distinct cultures. The nature of island living precludes a certain amount of population, its growth, and its movement, including the population of magical peoples. As I learned from the Department of Mysteries, and I'm sure many of you from older families know, magic is a living force of nature originating from the land. The nature of islands with magic—and therefore magical people—is to guarantee the continuation of that magic, even if it means forcing the issue through affliction."

She heard a collective intake of breath go around the room—no one liked the idea of illness—and Britain was just now beginning to move on from the War. She continued on as if she hadn't heard anything,

"Each island seems to have a different memory of it's culture's magic, and therefore each affliction is slightly different, and each culture's reaction to it differs as well. This happens naturally on all islands with a magical population, normally after natural disasters when the population's been suddenly reduced, but in our case, war."

Hermione pulled out a sheet of parchment with her notes from inside her robes. She wasn't going to miss anything,

"Allow me to give a brief summation of my research—as the only references I found to this happening here in Britain were once during the first few Roman invasions, and again during the Burning Times. The problem with the records from the Roman invasions is that Romans wrote them. There are no records from British writers of the age to explain our particular binding to our land. The Romans had no understanding of what was going on—only one scholar from that time was from Sardinia and had seen it before. He called it ' _insula languorem_ ' or 'island sickness'. He did however, note that the population of Britannia did not seem to suffer exactly as his people did. Later accounts from the Burning Times are either in Latin or Anglo-Saxon, as some of the Saxons came from Scandinavian islands, they'd had their own cultural version."

"In Haiti they call it ' _peyi obligatwa_ ', meaning 'land binding'. It happens in Haiti quite frequently—so the magical culture there treats it the way we treat a Veela finding their mate—as the land showing you and binding you to your soul's other half. In Haiti, the process it much like Veelas as well, partners are driven to search for one another, generally with a perssitant sense of attraction and discomfort, but without the potential for pain or violence. If their partner is not found, they might languish in a bit of ennui until the land binding passes, until enough other couples have gotten together. All in all, it's a mellow process there."

"The Sardinian explained 'island sickness' as a physical fever in the already oppressive heat of their climate, motivating people to find their partners in order to feel cool and relaxed again. If however, you couldn't or didn't seek your partner, the heat would slowly drive a person insane, and they would seek what he called 'cool breezes in the desert, spring water in the volcanos', thereby implying that people went mad and found paradoxical ways to end their own lives, usually surrounding this theme of heat."

"The infrequency of this phenomenon is not always the case, however. Saxons who experienced this wrote extensively on it—calling it ' _järnland upphetsning_ ', roughly translating to 'iron land fever' or 'iron land incitement'. In the magical community on Fårö Island in Sweden, where the population has always been very small, of Wizarding and Muggle alike, the process in nearly continual, and it can be very violent. People are overtaken by a drive to seek out their partner, be that person on the island or abroad. References as early as the 9th Century Rök Runestone hint at the desperation they saw in their neighbors from Fårö. Later scholars hypothesize this drive of the island peoples is what kicked off the Viking age."

She paused, letting the precariousness of the situation sink in before resuming her speech—it was time for the other shoe to drop—such as it was,

"As Britain has been invaded and then populated by several other cultures over the centuries, it stands to reason that whatever the islands are going to force on the population could be influenced by the cultures of former conquerors. My Department and I have done extensive research into the ley-lines, and they suggest that this effect will not be limited to England, but to all of Great Britain. Ireland, Scotland, and Wales will not be exempt. This is primarily because all of Great Britain was unified in variations of the same pagan history—in short—the land remembers. The land is unified in its desire for this force to overtake us and bring more magical children through it and to it. As the peoples of these united isles, we derive our magic from our birthplace and our collective history."

"In the search for answers about how this might affect our modern era, we looked into the most recent episode of land binding in Great Britain. Records from The Burning Times are biased, mostly written by Muggle Inquisitors. They used the _Maleum Malificarum_ as their guide to rooting out magical folks and punishing them out of fear. It was the final reason of many that we introduced the Statute of Secrecy and isolated ourselves from Muggles as a community. I suspect that so many magical folks were discovered by the Inquisition towards the end of that age, because of this greater island nation affliction, our land binding. One monk described women and men driven mad with a need to roam free, speaking 'in tongues' about transforming themselves into beasts in order to find their 'bonded half'. He spoke of great delirious energy, and the violence these folks resorted to when restrained or questioned in any way."

She paused again, her hazel eyes sweeping every face she could discern in the crowd,

"I joined the Department of Mysteries in their research efforts, and in a combined effort of every staff member positioned along ley-lines in cardinal and ordinal positions to stop this from happening to us. We put our minds and our bodies on the line in secret to protect the magical communities of Great Britain from more potential heartbreak, violence, and death. Two Unspeakables of the Department of Mysteries lost their lives to the effort. Several of us, myself included, were grievously injured and magically exhausted. We suffered these losses and injuries because the land rejected our attempt to thwart its will."

"I tell you this now, in the open, because we will either need to endure this fate and whatever havoc it will bring, or pre-empt it. When Minister Shacklebolt suggested that we forego potential wounds while we are still healing as a nation, I agreed wholeheartedly. The Minister and the Wizengamot have debated for the past month and have decided to institute a Marriage Law in order to submit ourselves to the will of the land in as peaceful a way as possible. I agree with this decision."

Hermione had been expecting riotous discontent at the end of her speech, and she was still waiting for it, but what met her first was blank, stunned silence.

There was suddenly a sound like hundreds of hissing snakes, the mass of people beginning to turn to their neighbors and whisper. The noise rose rapidly, and after Hermione had finished counting backwards from ten, the first bark-like yells erupted, she'd counted to fourteen before people were standing and shouting invective. She was thankful that this was the moment that Kingsley stood and took over, gesturing for her to sit back down while casting a Sonorus on his own throat.

"SIIILENCE!"

Everyone halted, some clapping their mouths shut, others seeming to stop mid-motion, mouths open. There were several older folks standing stock still with fists raised in the air. She almost felt like giggling—almost.


	11. Chapter 11

Blaise had sat while others stood and shouted, too stunned to move. He could hear a ripple of angry whispers growing around him and he felt himself say the first thing that fell out of his mouth,

"I need to get very very drunk, as soon as possible."

He found his head snapping sideways at the sound of an amused snort, but it wasn't Draco that made the noise—it was Potter—of all people. He wondered abstractly when the Boy Wonder had grown a sense of humor, and how exactly he'd missed that Draco was seated next to the savior of wizarding Britain. He'd been caught up in a conversation with Theo about families he traded with upon entering the forum, therefore, it must have been Theo's fault.

Speaking of, Theo could stop fishing for a bride, it seemed he was going to get one, or possibly be issued one, in rather short order. Blaise wondered if this would even affect him, he wasn't technically a British citizen, just a resident. His first stepfather had been British, and had insisted they started the naturalization process, but he couldn't recall ever finishing it after being accepted to Hogwarts and the man's death shortly thereafter. He'd have to check on that, immediately.

He was vaguely aware of Minister Shacklebolt explaining to the now quieted crowd that the law, Temporary Social Decree No. 928, would not effect couples that were already married—and that divorcees, widows, and widowers could opt out of aligning themselves with a new partner should they chose—but that they were still likely to feel the effects of the land binding along with the rest of the population. This was the moment that the Minister said something very curious indeed,

"Should anyone who has already been married not desire to participate, in two days time, simply swat the parchment bee."

This was the moment Blaise heard that the buzz still present in the room wasn't people whispering anymore, but instead, it was coming from the front of the forum room and it was growing louder. All of the Unspeakables, including Granger, were holding bale lid jars about the size of a human torso, and they'd lifted the lids.

...

Draco watched with oddly detached interest as the mass of tiny buzzing beings rippled and swarmed out of the jars towards the ceiling, then seemed to expode out of their clumps like tiny fireworks. He noticed Granger still standing on the dais with her hand out, palm open and up, while a tiny parchment bee landed on the back of his own hand and spread its wings out wide. The wings were the same creamy ivory as the rest of the bee, its stripes were made up of tiny printed text, but he couldn't read it. The little beast hummed happily, buzzing and fluffing its wings on the back of his hand until he began to rotate his wrist like Granger had already done. It tickled as it walked between his thumb and forefinger to settle itself in the middle of his palm.

He was struck by the ingenius bit of Charms work, and was considering who might have come up with the idea of tiny parchment bees when the damn thing stung him right in the middle of his palm. He pulled his hand towards his chest, apparently the Ministry wasn't waiting two days for single people to deal with the bees, but rather getting it over with now. Potter was watching as several people near them in the crowd had little beats either sitting on their shoulders, or else were flinching as they too were stung. He looked to his other side to see Blaise staring upwards, no bee in sight, as if waiting. That's when it hit him, Blaise wasn't a citizen, this law likely didn't effect him. Theo was on Blaise's other side, hissing in pain while trying to keep his palm flat and open.

Draco looked back at his bee—it had unfurled to reveal his signature spelling itself out, exactly as he would have written it—in what was more than likely his own blood instead of ink. He had a moment to turn the scrap of now inanimate parchment over and finally read the text aloud with quiet fervency,

"A man does not recover from such a devotion of the heart to such a woman! He ought not; he does not."

Theo looked up at Draco, then inspected his own scrap of parchment and read his in a whisper,

"When I saw you, I fell in love, and you smiled because you knew."

Potter was suddenly chuckling to himself, and the small line of former Slytherins all turned to stare at him, their expressions painted in a clearly scornful light, inquiring with their eyebrows alone as to just what was so funny. When Potter finally looked up and saw this, he began to laugh aloud in earnest. Theo's tone was acidic when he finally was annoyed enough to form words,

"You think this is funny because you've managed to escape it, Potter?"

Potter kept laughing, but shook his head and started taking in gulps of air, as if filling his lungs might stop his mirth. He held up an index finger and held his breath simultaneously for a moment before exhaling and speaking,

"No, it's funny because she charmed them with love quotes from Muggle literature, probably to try to make everyone feel better about it."

All four pairs of eyes turned immediately to one Hermione Granger, still on the dais, now healing her own palm with her wand. Potter kept speaking,

"She told me that she charmed text on to them, and that each bee was to find the person who would seek the content of the text most. She used a resonance charm, usually used to make the sound of bells travel further. That being said, Malfoy here seems to want a love match which is not wholly unexpected, and Nott, despite months of hunting for a dowry-laden bride, likely hasn't settled down yet because he really wants peace and contentment." Potter paused and looked contemplative for a moment before facing Blaise,

"Where's yours Zabini?"

"Not a citizen, didn't get one." Potter nodded, and out of the corner of his eye, Draco saw Minister Shacklebolt rise from having his own hand healed—again by Granger—to retake his speaking position. He raised his wand and shouted,

" _Accio_ names!" Draco watched as the Minister held open a familiar ratty bit of fabric—perhaps a pouch he'd seen before—and aimed the fluttering masses of parchments scraps into it. Shacklebolt then turned and re-addressed the room,

"The Sorting Hat will now be used to make matches based on values, its knowledge of students—as it remembers everyone it has ever sorted—and based upon magical signatures in the blood." Draco felt all the color, such as it was, leave his face at those words, but the Minister continued speaking,

"Each person will received word from the Ministry when the pairings have been completed, and we will will have solicitors available to help draft marriage contracts for those that desire them. Those who have been sorted with a partner have eight weeks to court and marry. The Ministry will be performing marriage rites en masse, but if youd' rather have a private rite, I suggest you plan and accomplish it before the eight week deadline is up."

Draco subtly moved to nudge Blaise in the ribs, hard, and whispered grittily into his lover's ear,

"We need to talk—Now. Manor in ten minutes?"

...

Blaise had watched Draco shoot out of his seat, and once Theo had muttered about needing to go get drunk, Blaise Apparated to the Manor as requested, only to find Draco pacing his bedroom rapidly. Blaise hesitated for a moment, assessing his lover, trying to figure out if thsi was a fit of temper or anxiety from body language alone. Blaise rolled his sage-green eyes after a moment and poured himself into a club-chair, as he'd mentally arrived at anxiety, not anger, and Draco would likely begin pouring out words any moment. He was not disappointed:

"Did you hear what the Minister said?"

"Yes, Draco, you're going to be married, we knew this would happen eventually."

"No, not that, the bit about the methods the Sorting Hat would be using!"

Blaise rolled his eyes again, and found himself reciting as if to a child,

"Yes, on it's memory, the values presumably 'resonated' by Granger's text on the parchment, and by magical signature in the—" This is where he paused, seeing suddenly what had made Draco so nervous,

"Merlin's Bollocks. The blood." Draco's face was drawn, wide-eyed as he whisper-shouted,

"Yes, thank you for finally catching on!" Blaise took a deep breath, he knew that Draco's temper would take over if he became snarky in this moment, so he refrained and took a deep breath,

"We'll have to wait and see who it is then, and if we think we can explain it to her, and make it work, we do that. If it won't, we say nothing, and I keep my urges to myself."

"That would likely drive you mad, Blaise, and you know it."

"But I would make the effort, nonetheless, for you and for your bride." Draco's hands were suddenly on either side of his face and he was being kissed hard. He knew this was an expression of gratitude, nerves, self-comforting, and affection, but it didn't stop the taunt bolt of lust in his gut. The almost-itching sensation was back, and if Draco's sudden shiver was any indication, he felt it too. Draco released his mouth and spoke, but didn't let go of his face,

"That itching must be the land-binding, and you're only feeling it because I am. Oh Merlin, this is already fucking unbearable." Blaise found himself giving an exasperated sigh,

"No, Draco, the Dark Lord was unbearable. This is merely complicated and inconvenient. Now let's have a whiskey, go to bed, and we'll figure out the next step as soon as you get a letter from the Ministry."

...

Hermione woke the day after the announcement in the Ministry forum with a blinding headache, to the deeply irritating sounds of songbirds outside her windows. Her eyes narrowed, and while she recognized that she was likely being taciturn and unreasonable, she still wanted the apparently very happy birds to Shut The Hell Up.

She was achey this morning, her joints swollen and creakily protesting both consciousness and motion. Coffee first or shower first, either way, they were going to be blisteringly hot, and the only thing that got her out of bed. It was only in these private moments of early morning pain that she mentally conceded that house elves as servants sounded wonderful—no wonder wizards kept them—but it smacked too much of slavery for her to be able to take the thought any further.

She opted for a long shower with the lights off, and stayed in the dim cubicle until her skin appeared to turn from a dull lavender-grey to a dark brown. She wasn't expected back to her desk in the DMLE until next week, as the Unspeakables no longer needed her help, so when Kingsley told her to take the rest of the week to herself, she did. Far be it from her to ignore a near command from both a friend and the Minister for Magic, and Kingsley had chuckled when she told him exactly that.

She sat to dry her hair and thought for a moment, trying to discern her feelings about the land binding in general, and the Marriage Law she'd helped draft in particular. There was an unconscious harrumph when she heard Ron in her head, saying something about he was likely the only wizard on earth who would have the 'short, prissy, demanding swot' anyway, and hoped to Merlin and Erzulie that the Sorting Hat didn't think to pair her with him. She disliked that this whole thing had brought her insecurities to the forefront, but she might as well examine them.

Did she think Ronald Billius WEasley was the only wizard in the world who would have her? No—not only was it statistically unlikely—but she knew that Ron had always been prone to fits of temper, and tended to lash out verbally as soon as he was mentally backed into a corner. Was she worried that she might be paired up with someone she might not feel affection for? Yes—that did seem to be a bit of a worry, as she had always hoped to marry for love like her parents had—but she also trusted the Sorting Hat. It had taken it's sweet time sorting her in the first place, arguing for Ravenclaw, and only considering her bold and red-hot streak for justice pulled it out of the Hat Stall to sort her into Gryffindor.

She almost felt a little relieved at the prospect of not having to go back into the wide world of dating, which ad been largely disastrous for her after she and Ron split. She had tried though, and the few dates she'd gone on with various wizards Ginny had set her up with were variably successful. Oliver Wood had even managed to get himself invited back to her old flat in London, and they'd had a heated snog against the Floo mantle, but he'd balked at the sight of all the scars across her torso when she'd removed her shirt. He said seeing them reminded him of the War, and he'd apologized and left shortly thereafter. And there was another insecurity to examine:

Would her body and her history be troubling to her new, hypothetical partner? Would she have to explain each one to make them understand, or heaven forbid, would she have to glamour them all the time? Would she have to glamour her tattoos or explain those too? Ugh. The entire exercise only served to remind her why dating had been so uncomfortable and why it hadn't taken her long to start saying no to Ginny's dating suggestions. It did harden her resolve in one regard though—she'd commit to whomever the Hat said was her match and try to grow the kind of relationship she really wanted—if for no other reason than that she was wholly against dating ever again.

She returned to her room and dressed in clean linen pajamas and a long pullover, having no intention of leaving the house today, but still wanting fresh clothes. When she arrived in her kitchen, there was an eagle owl perched outside the window waiting patiently to be let in, so she put off her coffee. This was the second time she'd seen Malfoy's owl, and decided to say hello despite not knowing the beast's name,

"Well, you're very polite to have waited for me instead of tapping my window apart, let's get you some bacon for your trouble."

The bird seemed to stand straighter and puffed up a bit on the edge of her sink, as if proud and at attention. The bird also seemed to be watching her closely, anticipating all things fried and porcine, but too well mannered to jump and hoot with excitement.

"You remind me a great deal of your owner," she chuckled at the bird and retrieved the note from a leather tube on its ankle while it daintily picked bits of cold bacon from her palm. Its beak brushed her 'bee sting' from the day prior, and while she hissed in pain, she managed not to flinch, as it would likely get her nipped. Bacon gone, the bird bowed its head slightly, hopped to the windowsill and waited—she got the hint and read the note:

 _Per our earlier correspondence, I was wondering if myself and Blaise Zabini could come to your home today to learn the Patronus? Please send Hera back with your answer._

"Hera?" The bird faced her and bowed again, "A lovely name for a powerful woman." She scribbled her agreement and address at the bottom of his note and as Hera took off with it, she finally made herself a coffee. She could clean the house before her guests arrived, and prep for lunch. Tunes, cleaning required tunes.


	12. Chapter 12

Blaise was watching Draco pace. This was not new, but he'd been itchy and irritable for a few hours himself, and knew Draco was feeling worse, and watching his lover's anxiety was now only proving to chafe his nerves.

"Stop. Stop pacing this instant. She said we could come at noon, and it is 11:58, why don't we just Apparate there already if you're so antsy?"

Draco had stopped and flinched a bit at the boom in his voice, which he felt a little bad about, but mostly he just felt mild relief at the cessation of the pacing. Ah well, one of the downsides of a natural bass voice was that one had to constantly watch one's volume.

Draco saw his momentary remorse, and rather than address it, he instead answered the question,

"She's got Anti-Apparition wards, the house is under a Fidelius, and she's got a penchant for punctuality. Even Potter hadn't been there before he took me. I'm not sure we couldn't be killed for trying to show up early."

Blaise nodded, waving his hand in a 'get on with it' gesture, and pronounced as haughtily as possible,

"You may re-commence with the infernal pacing."

Draco snorted and then chuckled at the idea of permission, jiggled one leg, and stared at his pocket watch for the seven-hundredth time since they sent Hera off after breakfast. Fourteen further steps and a leg jiggle later, Draco sneered at him,

"Now we may go, your royal bloody majesty." Blaise laughed the comment off,

"You're just mad that I got to be royal for a moment." Draco snarled momentarily, grabbing his upper arm and Blaise felt himself being pulled like taffy as they Apparated.

He felt Draco release him, and swayed for a moment on his feet. Merlin knew—Blaise hated Apparating—he discreetly organized all his travel around wizard ships, trains, and Floo. He felt Draco put a questioning hand on his shoulder and brushed it off with a wave of his hand. He'd known that this would happen, all nausea and spinning brain for just a moment. He felt himself flush and hoped that it would pass quickly and he wouldn't vomit. Draco handed him a conjured glass of water, glistening with condensation, and he drank it greedily.

"Thank you." His companion nodded, and narrowed his eyes behind Blaise, presumably at Granger's house.

"Blaise, should we call the Aurors? That noise can't be a good sign."

He turned his head a bit and honed his hearing past the mild pitchy ringing in his own ears, increasingly becoming aware of a rhythmic thumping coming from the house,

"No need for the goon squad, I think it's just music." Draco snorted, apparently unconvinced.

When Blaise felt the last roll of nausea go from his stomach to his tight throat, he released a breath, pried his fingers off his kneecaps, and stood upright. Upon turning, he was faced with a delightful country cottage, an English front garden that was full of herbs and wildflowers, seemingly wild and unmanicured—but secretly perfect—with patches of fruit trees along the borders. He could almost feel the sun and comfort radiating off the field-stone corners and lintels of the structure. He found himself chuckling, suddenly understanding what Draco had meant about being instantly and paradoxically comfortable in the house with Granger,

"It's fucking precious. Of course this is her house." Draco pulled a slight sneer,

"It's not as twee in the inside, but yes, it's very obviously hers."

Draco led the way up the cobbled path, past the patio where Granger had apparently nearly bled out, and knocked on the front door. Blaise felt a shudder of itchiness go under his skin like a bolt of lightning and in reassessing Draco's ramrod spine, recognized the tension there. He placed his hand against the curve of Draco's lower back, a comforting gesture that he knew was only ever well-received in private, so he wasn't offended when Draco shuddered and eased under his hand, then shot him a glare. He was grateful for the comfort, but his pride wouldn't allow it to linger, or it just smacked of coddling. Blaise gave a knowing smile and removed his hand.

No one answered the door, and the thumping continued from within, the moment having officially become awkward.

"Perhaps she didn't hear the knock over the music. I can't imagine she'd mind if we just went in, under these circumstances. She's been friends with Potter and Weasley long enough that she might not even expect them to even knock."

Draco nodded, recognizing that her friendship with those two was oddly close, that the Wonder Duo lacked manners, and that it was likely she couldn't hear them, though his aristocratic face was also showing his opinion of what Blaise kept calling 'music', and his upper lip had clearly decided was not. Blaise chuckled and opened the door, wincing slightly for Draco's sake at how much louder the music was without the door as a barrier. The bass was vibrating through his whole body, forcing him to breathe in time with its pulse, and a sliding high melody twisted through it before he heard a breath and a man's deep melted chocolate voice,

 _Hah, sicka than your average_

 _Poppa twist cabbage off instinct_

 _niggas don't think shit stink,_

 _pink gators, my Detroit players_

Now, Blaise had always considered himself a connoisseur of the female form, but what he saw as soon as they breached the vestibule made his gut clench and his cock twitch. He'd ceased to hear the lyrics of the song at all, transfixed as he was. He'd wooed and bedded English girls, French girls, Italian girls, but he'd never seen anything like this. His father had been a wizard from Nigerian royal lines but not an heir, and had met his mother while she was on holiday in Tunis, and because race mattered less than blood in the wizarding world, it had never occurred to him that the svelte lines of European women might not be the most appealing shape a woman could be.

Hermione Granger was dancing with a mop in her parlor, but her thighs were ample, the color of burnished bronze, and taunt like bowstrings as she squatted low in a tee shirt and cotton shorts. She bounced on her heels and it shook her ass to the beat, and the more she moved the more he felt his brain shut off. She was singing along to the song, some higher pitched lyrical chorus, and he glanced briefly back at Draco, who was also staring. Draco seemed equally captivated, and just a little horrified at himself for looking. As Blaise turned back to her, Draco cleared his throat loudly, and when that had no effect, he shouted over the music,

"Granger!"

She jolted upright and whirled towards them with a surprised 'eep', but her wand had appeared from some mysterious place within her light cotton attire and was leveled at them at a potentially vicious angle before recognition lit up in her amber eyes. Blaise watched as she stood, pulling her legs out of a near pounce to stand politely with her ankles together, wand behind her back, as if she hadn't just been moving like some kind of primal goddess of sex and power. He felt like he had whiplash from the rapid changes in her body language, but she was taking one of those big breaths like she always did before a lecture of some kind, so he refocused soon into her first sentence,

"...very punctual of you Malfoy. Anyway, I'm going to go change, you two are going to go eat chocolate in the kitchen and meditate on happy memories. Then we'll head outside."

She turned and walked away, still a little embarrassed if the hesitation in her steps said anything, and Blaise took a moment to assess her figure overall. Petite frame, high cheekbones, Ridiculous Hair, strong shoulders, perfect posture, small breasts, a narrow waist given away by the folds in her baggy shirt, wide curved hips, thick thighs that were touching now that she was standing, small feet with high arches, and slender toes. She'd certainly developed since Hogwarts, and whenever he'd seen her since she'd been in the all-encompassing crimson robes of the DMLE or the inky indigo of the Unspeakables, so he hadn't noticed her figure. He rapidly turned to Draco with a slightly accusatory glare,

"You failed, rather spectacularly, to mention that the swot had, in fact, become magnificent to look at." Draco shrugged,

"I hadn't seen any evidence of that. The last time I saw her here she was in a shift to her ankles, and covered in blood. The only thing I noticed is that she looked smaller when unconscious."

Draco was walking as he spoke, presumably towards the kitchen, so Blaise followed. His ire wasn't totally soothed, even knowing how much the sight of her bleeding had likely unsettled his mate, as he still sometimes had nightmares about her torture in his home.

...

Mortified. She was mortified. Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini has seen her dancing—to hip hop of all things—which she always did with abandon. Harry and Ron had seen it once at Grimmauld Place, just after the war and before she returned to Hogwarts, again when she had been cleaning. Ron had been equal parts awestruck and angry that she'd been capable of any movement that sexual when still refusing to let him get a leg over. Harry had looked speculative—as if he was realizing she was female and not a textbook—it was the same look he'd given her at the Yule Ball fourth year after his shock had worn off. Then he'd grinned, and ever so slightly taken the piss,

 _"Mione, have you been hitting the clubs while we're at late night training sessions?"_

The memory bothered her, irritated her enough that her embarrassment burned away, because she remembered Ron's immediate jealousy and rage over even the idea of her going out and dancing. Ron's jealously and insecurities had been a constant source of friction, and her inability to fully forgive him for leaving while they were on their Horcrux hunt had only added fuel to the fire. No—better to not think of all that, it would just bring on a fresh bucket of rage that would ruin her day—and anyway, she had guests. It was a bonus that those guests wanted to learn something, she'd been looking forward to it all morning, and she was not going to let the mere memory of Ronald Billius Weasley spoil it.

...

Draco eyed the Swiss chocolate already on the counter, but couldn't find fault, so he tore the paper and foil off, split the bar in two, and handed half to Blaise. The concept of meditating on happy memories was so completely foreign to him that it had nearly shaken the image of Granger dancing out of his head. Was that something Muggles did, dancing like that, something she learned visiting her Grann in Haiti, perhaps? It certainly looked liked a tribal dance—all her visceral femininity on display—and then to whirl around so poised to attack. It had been a visual reminder, again, that Hermione Granger was not just the swotty Gryffindor he remembered, but a witch who had fought and likely killed, and might just still be a little bit broken.

That made him disappointed in the world a bit, somehow it didn't seem right for Granger to be marred in any way by a fight she'd been victor in, but he mentally acknowledged that he didn't look at the world from the position of a victor. He'd looked at the world for a short time from the position of the defeated, trying to hold onto his pride, until his fathers funeral when his mother had pointed out that he wasn't a loser in a war, but a cornered victim of it. That hadn't sat well. He'd later decided that if there was a word for his position, his perspective on the recent war, that it was Survivor, and he could live with that.

He bit into a nib of the chocolate absentmindedly and was shocked to discover it had a silky lemon and lavender curd center—his favorite, but Blaise hated lavender—he let it melt on his tongue while he turned to see Blaise's whole face go pliable with ecstasy, which did not make any sense. He raised a brow, and his lover licked his lips before answering the unspoken inquiry,

"Bourbon and salted caramel in the middle—heavenly."

"Odd, I had lemon and lavender curd." Blaise pulled a predictable face of disgust. Granger walked into the kitchen at that moment, now more reasonably dressed in a pair of Muggle jeans and a massive Quidditch sweater that draped off one shoulder at her neck. It was crimson, but not Hogwarts kit, so he wasn't surprised that when she turned toward the counter to fix herself a coffee that the back read "KRUM". Even if it rankled a bit, it was better than her swanning about in one of Weasley's old pullovers.

His face must have become pinched, because Blaise was looking positively smug at his annoyance, which only deepened his scowl. However, Granger turned and addressed them, so both their faces immediately became stoic, if a little bored.

"How do you both like the chocolate?" Blaise spoke first,

"We ate from the same bar, but the centers were different." Granger smirked wickedly, and Draco was suddenly aware of how infuriating that expression must be on his own face to other people.

"And was it your favorite, Zabini?"

"Blaise, please, _bella_ , and yes it was." Draco rolled his eyes at Blaise's flirtation, it was clearly for his own amusement, and frankly pointless, as she—just like them—would be drawn to a partner and married off soon. Granger's smirk grew smug before she spoke,

"Good. I spent months helping George develop it, it's nice to know the chocolatier didn't mess up the recipe."

Draco turned over the piece still in his hand ensconced in foil and read the paper wrapper with intent this time, finally seeing the fine print which stated ' _recipe licensed from Weasely's Wizarding Wheezes of Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade, England_ '.

"He didn't credit you." She chuckled, and her smile turned lethal again,

"He didn't have to, I'm part-owner. I take particular pleasure in showing up to shareholder meetings and silently reminding Ron that my share is bigger than his."

Draco was only momentarily flabbergasted before Blaise broke the silence with his thunderous laughter, and Draco's face seemed to fracture open as he joined in. Merlin, he couldn't remember the last time he'd found something that funny. She smiled genuinely at their laughter, this being only the second time Draco had seen Granger smile at him rather than in his periphery.

It was with that thought that a fresh electric shock of itching flowed under his skin, but it somehow seemed less irritating for the time being. Blaise gave a small shudder at his side and his laughter tapered off, so he must have felt it too. Granger's smile eased from a sunshine grin to something softer, and she spoke in her lecturer tone again,

"Alright gentlemen, shoes off. Then let's head outside and do this. The _Patronus_ is difficult, but absolutely worth mastering."


	13. Chapter 13

Italian espresso. _Nothing._

Summer sun in Malta. _Minuscule glow._

Meeting Draco. _Slightly brighter._

His mother's smile. _Much better, Granger had said._

Mastering his first spell in Charms class before the Ravenclaws. _Total fizzling nothingness._

The first time he kissed Draco. _The brightest yet, but not strong enough._

...

The day he'd first done accidental magic at four and his parents had both beamed at him, despite that he'd blown up a Ming vase. _Nothing._

His first flight on his training broom, his father looking on with an indulgent smirk on his face. _A bright spark for only a moment before violently cracking away to nothing._

Breaking Potter's nose. _Dull Lumos glow._

Surprisingly, Granger breaking _his_ nose had then popped into his head. _Brighter, much better, said Granger._

The first time Blaise kissed him. _Fireworks bright, but it didn't linger, not strong enough._

Blaise and his mother laughing in the parlor. _A tiny blue bubble popped from the end of his wand and twirled off as it dimmed._

...

She had been watching them, her toes digging into the grass and the warm earth, hoping that being barefoot would help them feel the same contentment before they started, but it had made both of them uncomfortable for a moment.

Draco hadn't glamoured his tattoos, and Blaise had raised an eyebrow, chin toward her, some unknowable silent question as to whether or not she ought to be a witness to them. She had smiled softly at Blaise's clear protective streak, and she'd lifted the glamour on her own tattoos when he finally looked her way. He hadn't said anything, but his mouth had opened and tweaked upwards in the corners, and that was enough to move forward.

The _Patronus_ was about embodying a happy memory, yes, but you couldn't have happiness without truth, or trust. Malfoy trusted Blaise, so she would too, for today at the very least. After nearly an hour had passed, she'd made them take a break. She gestured for them to sit in the shade while she circled the back garden, grabbing a green apple, a pear, and a pomegranate respectively off their separate trees.

Draco was handed the green apple, Blaise the pomegranate, and she pulled her curved garden knife from its sheath on her hip to being cutting up her pear. They both stared at the fruit in their hands, then at her, so she chuckled and explained,

"You notice things about people who are supposedly your enemy. At least, intelligent people do. I spent the better part of seven years in the same building with the two of you, and in a generalized state of enmity. It would have been silly not to notice what some of your favorite foods were."

Blaise chuckled and responded, clearly knowing an observation of his own, about her, counted in today's truthful tête-à-tête,

"You prefer coffee in the morning, tea in the afternoon, and something cold with dinner." Malfoy spoke up next,

"You had a favorite study table in the library, and it bothers you that your handwriting gets messier at the bottom of the page." She nodded, both those things were true. It was her turn again in this chorus of small truths,

"Blaise excelled in Charms, Malfoy in Potions, and much to Harry's dismay, not just because Snape preferred the Slytherins." Blaise scoffed,

"Everyone knows that, try again." She spoke softly, not knowing if this was the right moment to say hard truths, with kindness, so they could all accept it and move on with learning the _Patronus_ ,

"You love your mother Blaise. And she doesn't kill your stepfathers—she was cursed, but refuses to see a cursebreaker—likely out of shame over something that is not truly her fault." Blaise's hackles went up for a moment, but when he responded it was in a low tone, somewhere between soft and dangerous, instead of entirely the latter,

"I have no idea how the fuck you know that Granger, but yes, it's true. Potter and Weasley took you for granted in school, and you resent them both just a little bit for needing them to be the center of your universe but never getting the same kind of slack from them. Potter took Weasley's side in most fights." She nodded,

"That's true, I did resent it, and until more recently, Harry did almost always take Ron's side. And I knew that because Bill Weasley ran into your mother in Diagon Alley three years ago, and he's a cursebreaker for Gringott's. Something was bothering him when he got home, so I got him tipsy and wheedled it out him." Malfoy's voice was hesitant when he jumped back into the conversation,

"You don't participate in a great deal of feminine activities because you want to be valued for your merit, not your looks, but you are not completely above a little feminine vanity, and even though it bothers you, you keep your nails perfect anyway." She nodded again,

"You grew your hair out after your father passed because it helped you mourn the parts of him you loved without anyone giving you guff about it." He nodded in return.

That was enough truth for the time being, so she stuck a slice of pear in her mouth instead. Both men took the hint, and they ate in the shade in silence. When they finished she threw the scraps on the compost heap, and turned back to them,

"This spell is not as simple as thinking happy thoughts, as you've seen. It's not even about joy. It's about the strength of your conviction in the memory. I will tell you what mine is, but know that if you ever share it with anyone else, I can kill you and get away with it."

She allowed her face her face to go blank, as it was true that she knew several ways she could, in fact, get away with killing someone, and they didn't need to know that she wasn't likely to act on it. Blaise raised an eyebrow as if he didn't quite believe her, but when he looked at Malfoy's face, it came back down. Malfoy's expression was one of recognition, and again a tiny hint that he might be impressed.

"Mine is of my Grann. She was telling me that she had never been frightened by my magic, that she remembered me, that she knows who I am, and that she loves me."

She let herself sink into the memory, closing her eyes, smelling Grann's amber perfume and the salt air, hearing the strength and love as her Gran called her by her nickname, _ti tanpèt loraj_ , little thunderstorm. She opened her eyes and spoke with determination,

" _Expecto Patronum_."

Her silvery otter burst forth, swimming up through the air to nuzzle her face momentarily just like Grann, then spiraling towards the two former Slytherins to assess them, twirling in the air a bit and even lolling its mouth and grinning as it went. It stopped momentarily, scratched its belly, and then twirled off into nothingness as there was no threat.

"That's enough for today, gents. Find a memory you can believe, that you can sink into at will, that makes you feel safe, and then you can try again. After you have a corporeal _Patronus_ , we can practice using them to send messages...For now though, who's up for afternoon tea?"

...

When they returned to the Manor, Draco felt completely at odds—emotionally drained, profoundly irritable, and yet physically jittery and energetic as a lightning bolt—which seemed to also be the case with Blaise, as they no sooner made it to Draco's suite than Blaise's mouth was on his neck.

...

Blaise felt bereft. He'd been flirtatious and charming all through tea, but behind that he'd been wracking his brain for a memory that made him feel safe, and coming up terrifyingly empty. He needed to feel something akin to joy, if for no other reason than to fight away inadequacy and fear that he might not have such a memory. He'd also been irritable since they'd left Granger twee little cottage—aggression and possessiveness battling for top spot in his chest—so it didn't totally surprise him when the instinct to pin Draco to a wall overtook him. Enough thinking for today.


	14. Chapter 14

The next morning saw Hermione deeply irritable, joints aching, head feeling like she'd slept in a bench vice instead of her bed, and she was oddly itchy. It was not a surface itch, like a midge bite, but deeper like the prickling at the back of your neck when someone is staring at you. It distracted her all through a boiling shower, while she tried to slowly stretch her muscles and roll her joints into submitting to the idea of motion. The discomfort didn't ease when she made her coffee—and her lower back felt as if the itching and joint pain had somehow joined forces—to the overall effect of her spine feeling as though someone had poured petrol on it and lit a match. She kept a cane in the house for bad days like this, but was generally loath to use it. Not today.

She used it to hobble into the parlor and decided to ignore her swollen, angry fingers while writing her Grann a letter. Grann knew that Hermione had been working on a way to stop the land binding, so it was time to share the results.

Hermione used the letter to express some of her insecurities from yesterday, knowing that Grann would either ease her mind, or give her some advice to use in the future. It would likely take a day for any post owl to get there, and it had been months since she'd sent a letter instead of a Patronus. Perhaps it was time she get an owl of her own instead of continuing to pay for the underfed international post owls. She wanted to know where Malfoy had gotten Hera, so on a whim, she produced her otter, and sent it off.

...

Blaise woke to an eerie blue light and what felt like tingly energy, like static from carpets, but less annoying, nuzzling between him and Draco in bed. He felt himself peeling his eyes open and assessing the light in the room. It was morning, early even, but not ungodly. He identified the static sensation as Granger's bright blue otter, nudging at his and Draco's shoulders, rolling over and over itself as if swimming underwater. When he sat up and shook Draco awake, the beast appeared to climb out of water, shake itself off, and then smiled as Granger's voice resonated from its body with little additional pulses of light,

"Malfoy, if you're free today, I'd like to meet. I need your help selecting an owl as excellent as Hera. Blaise is welcome to come, if he's still lounging about your house like Don Juan."

Blaise started laughing. If only she knew where exactly he'd been lounging.

...

Draco's brain finally kicked on at Blaise's laughter, and it warmed him a bit to know that he was right about her nagging and Blaise being amused by it. Sunday morning was not exactly his favorite time or day to leave the house, as Diagon Alley would be swamped, but perhaps in Granger's company, it wouldn't be so bad. He stood to pen her a response, then dressed, knowing Blaise was staring.

...

They were meeting at the Leaky in ten minutes, precisely at eleven, and Hermione found she was a little nervous about so public an interaction with them. It made the itch from the land binding intensify, and she stubbornly ignored the urge to scratch at herself. She was equally bothered by the way some of the patrons were staring at face, then her cane, then back again. She fought the urge to shout at them. She'd wanted to leave it at home, but her lower back and hip joints were still protesting movement, and she didn't trust herself to not occasionally buckle under the pain.

The Muggle doctor she'd seen had been perplexed by a twenty-two year old woman testing positive for rheumatism, and he'd suggested either pain-management drugs, steroids, or an immunosuppressant. Healers at St. Mungos has suggested constant small doses of pain potion, which was just as addictive as Muggle opioids. Nothing worked, and she didn't want to be an addict, so she grinned and bore the pain. She hissed through her teeth on the inhale as she shifted the cane in her hand, and thusly, her body weight on her hips. She hoped this would be a quick shopping venture.

...

Draco's eyes honed in on her cane immediately as they walked through the door of the Leaky. She was grimacing and avoiding motion. He turned to Blaise for a moment, then cast a significant glance back at the cane. Other patrons of the pub were staring at it as well, he bit his tongue to not snarl at them about their rudeness—this woman contributed to the current safety and happiness of everyone in this wretched place—the least they could do was not judge her for the damages saving them all had cost her. Blaise's upper lip rose in a snarl when he looked around the room, and he approached her.

"Ms. Granger, shall we?" She laughed, chuckling through her response,

"Blaise, you're not usually one for formality, that's Malfoy's job!"

Draco shook his head and smirked at their depricating humor, but gestured that they should lead the way into Diagon Alley. He resolutely ignored the quiet hum of gossip that the War Herione was in the company of an ex-Death Eater and his serpentine friend. He wanted to see her move, as she'd clearly understated the severity of her rheumatism.

...

Blaise pulled her hand into the loop of his left elbow and discreetly attempted to take as much of her weight as possible. She had naturally switched her cane to her free hand, and seemed to be putting less effort into taking steps now that she didn't have to lean on it for every step. She had narrowed her eyes for a moment as they turned the corner down the street from Eeylops—as she'd likely just figured out what he was doing—but he ignored it. He talked about her hair instead.

"Granger, we really must do something about this owl nest you call hair." Her shoulders rose a fraction of an inch and her response was somewhat gritted through her teeth,

"And just what would you know about my hair Blaise Zabini?" He felt himself reach up to his own hair, Draco chuckling to his right,

"Actually Granger, Blaise is quite vain about his hair. He spends more time and money on it than I do on mine."

"Just because you have cornsilk that's easily managed! You have no idea how to take care of African hair! You suggested I use your shampoo once when I ran out!" Blaise let his face pinch up into the quintessential picture of disgust, but Granger just looked between the two of them, then back at Blaise,

"What's wrong with regular shampoo?" Blaise stopped short from his next step, his hand to his heart as if wounded.

"Granger have you been using whatever Muggle concotion your mother used?"

"Yes, but why does that matter?"

"Merlin, woman! No wonder it's so out of control all the time! How did your father not say anything?!"

"He used something herbal on his hair that my mother hated, and he said he couldn't help with my hair because it's different for girls."

"It is not that different. That's it, we're getting you an owl, and I'm taking you to see Angelina." He nodded, it was his last word. He hadn't been kidding when he'd said he'd fix her hair. It hand't just been a statement of vanity, though, it was a matter of her feeling the same pride and beauty that he'd seen in the other girls at Hogwarts that had known what they were doing with their natural hair. It was likely that Granger had never been shown how. Draco clearly knew that was his final word on the matter, because he interjected,

"Well, then since Blaise is insisting, I suppose we'd better make the trip to Eeylops as quick as possible. I'll do the talking at first—the owner likes to hide his best stock—and then you can make your final choice Granger."

...

Watching Malfoy pull his features into his 'snob' face as they entered the menagerie made Hermione realize that she hadn't seen it in ages. Not since his trial, and even then it had been restrained behind fear. Seeing it again after four years was as disturbing as it was objectively easy that he could change his whole demeanor at will. It made her a little jealous—she was unlikely to ever escape her bookworm moniker—and it made her wonder what he was like when he was truly just being himself.

She didn't have to worry about Blaise not being himself—that seemed to be his entire raison d'être—particularly if he managed to make other peiople either laugh or squirm depending on his feelings towards them. He reminded her a bit of Baron Samdi with his lazy elegant dress, his flirtation, his seeming tactlessness, his constant need for coffee or firewhiskey. She let her brain drift off while leaning on her cane again, gently stroking a small barn owl perched near her and paying attention to the sensation of its ridged but silky feathers under her fingertips. It was the only thing she could enjoy about days when she was in this much physical pain—her senses were heightened towards all things tactile—and she allowed her eyes to follow her hypersensitive fingers past everything she touched.

Malfoy and Blaise were suddenly approaching her again, Malfoy was speaking, so she shook her head a little in an attempt to focus her eyes on his mouth, and therefore, her ears on his words,

"...ready for you in the backroom, Granger."

"Pardon?"

"Follow us. He's finally agreed to let you see the superior birds."

She nodded and followed tentatively, easing off one foot, then to her cane and the other foot, then back again. Malfoy was looking at her with that speculative Healer face again, observational and impassive. She decided she didn't like it.

...

Watching her shift herself into motion with slow sliding motions reminded him of a sloth. It was painful to watch—he was convinved that if he listened hard enough he might actually hear her bones creaking—and he couldn't stop himself from asking the tactless question he'd been avoiding all morning,

"How often are you in this much pain, Granger?"

Her face was tight when she answered him, partially from containing what appeared to be a grimace, and partially because she clearly didn't care for the inquiry,

"Not often. I keep the cane in the house just in case, but this is the first time I've had to use it in about three months. If you must know." He nodded, but declined to comment further. He knew the treatment options were limited in the long run, in both the Muggle and the wizarding worlds of medicine. Blaise was tapping a foot impatiently, but appeared to be holding in any other outward sign of his desire to change the subject, get her an owl, and get her to his favorite salon. Draco offered her his arm in an attempt to speed things along and keep Blaise from having some kind of apoplectic fit from having to wait, but at that moment Blaise seemed to have enough.

He picked her up. She made that 'eep' noise of surprise again as Blaise swung her across his chest bridal style, and eyed her cane with contempt until Draco got the hint and took it from her fingers a moment later.

...

It had taken entirely too long for his liking to talk the owner into submission—and to the benefit of a war heroine no less—but this man was always obsessed with breeding his birds for show, not for sale. He hated giving up prime breeders.

Blaise cringed to watch her begin moving, and he felt a tight ache bloom in his chest to see her put her chin up and attempt dignity under Draco's questioning. He tapped his toe—anything to ease his own tension—but it wasn't enough. She was heavier than he'd been expecting, but her skin radiated warmth across his body as he lifted and carried her into the back room. That nervous mouse noise she made was flatly adorable.

"Oh for Merlin's sake, Granger, come on. I will have you burrowed into a salon chair in no time, being pampered, and off your feet, but we have to get through this first."

...

Draco watched her eyes flitting about the perches in the back room of the menagerie once Blaise had set her down again. She seemed to be assessing each bird, not just for breed or temperment, but also looking for some singular personality trait that he couldn't identify from watching her watch the owls. It may have felt like a small eternity, but it was no more than two minutes later that she chose,

"That one, what's his name?" The owner cringed momentarily, he'd clearly been hanging on to this particular male,

"He doesn't have one yet, he's a recent acquisition. He's not even full grown yet." Draco interjected,

"That is not even an owl, it's a harpy eagle."

"I know, Malfoy, and he's lovely. He'll look even better when all his black feathers grow in and he hits 5 kilos—very stately indeed—and he'll be comfortable visiting Grann since it's just northeast of his natural range." Blaise had picked up a thick perch, a dragonhide glove, and a very large travel cage,

"Great, excellent. Can we go now?"

Granger laughed as she paid, completely ignoring the fact that that the shop owner looked near to tears the whole time. She also didn't know that Draco and Blaise had already told the owner they'd pay for one-third of whatever bird she picked, and they'd each already given him IOUs to be taken and cashed at Gringotts.


	15. Chapter 15

Hermione was nervous as Draco apparated them all to Hogsmeade, not because she didn't know exactly where they were going, but because salons made her nervous. The hairdressers always tried to cut in layers, or thin her hair, or Merlin forbid, trying to blow it out. The whole place would smell like caustics and potions, someone would inevitably bury their hands in her hair without invitation, get stuck, and then ask if she had a boyfriend while trying to untangle themselves.

It was then she realized that while she was leaning heavily on her cane after landing, Blaise was holding onto his knees as though he might be ill.

"Blaise, if apparating bothers you, we should just take the Floo to the Leaky when we're done here." She put her hand on his shoulder, and he jolted momentarily at the unexpected contact. He gave a slight shiver when she moved her hand to his forehead, knowing her permanently cool fingers would feel better than a nauseous flush. When Blaise sighed and his posture eased, she pulled her hands away,

"Better?"

...

Draco watched her reaching for his lover and felt a fresh river of staticky, electrical, buzzing itching ripple under his skin when her hand landed on Blaise's shoulder, which seemed to melt and cool as soon as she pressed delicate hand to brunneous forehead. He found himself giving a top-to-bottom shudder at the change.

...

Blaise stood to shake off the sensation of her cool fingers. They'd felt as comforting as a hot bath after a difficult game of Quidditch, or hugging his mother. The hellish sensation of marching ants under his skin disappeared. The impatience and snappishness he'd woken up with seemed to melt away to nothing. He needed to get her hands off of him as much as he wanted them to stay put.

It pained him to think it, because as much as he might have found her to be a balm in this moment, she was unlikely to be Draco's bride, and by proxy, his as well. She would be wed to some bookish Ravenclaw who had worked up the bollocks to fight for the Order during to the war, and it wouldn't matter that he found her attractive and comforting. In another lifetime perhaps, he would have approached her, apologized for his complicity in the behavior of Slytherin House during school, asked her out on a date. She'd probably have said no, but then, she would be well within her rights to do so.

Blaise led them to the salon from the alley they'd Apparated into, chatting up Granger, whose face was already set in a half-sneer that would have made Draco proud. She clearly wasn't looking forward to this, although he couldn't comprehend why. So he talked about neem conditioning washes and hot oil under silk wraps instead.

Draco's body heat against his other arm kept him calm underneath, regardless of his outward appearance. He could count on Draco to shout the tactless thing he wanted to explode about, but couldn't say. He could count on Draco to keep up a cutting stream of criticisms at Ministry events and distract him from his own nervous insecurities. He loved that man, in all his porcelain pointiness, but that did not mean that Blaise had ever deluded himself about their relationship. The rest of the world viewed them as best mates, and didn't care to know about anything else. He found himself wondering what she would think of it, found himself pinning Draco with a Significant Look.

...

Draco saw the expression, knew what it meant. He nodded and pointed subtly to the village green across the street, a quiet bench by a small duckpond.

...

Hermione didn't notice that she had been steered until they had crossed the street and Blaise was helping her ease herself onto a park bench, the wood worn glassy and smooth by decades of people's bottoms. Draco and Blaise were standing over her, swapping glances that must have meaning to them, when Blaise set down the birdcage and knelt down in front of her to speak, his deep voice holding more tremor than she'd ever heard before,

"It's potentially stupid of me to share this Granger, but we're all about to be married off to potential strangers, which isn't a huge change from what I expected, but it is happening much sooner than I'd planned, and—" She cut him off,

"What's going on? Is one of you dying or something, because you're entirely too nervous and serious for my liking."

She found herself splaying a hand against her own breastbone, like her Grann if she clutched at her pearls, and the other hand landed back on Blaise's shoulder. He relaxed again, but this time, she noticed that Draco did too, and after a beat of silence, Draco snorted. Then chuckled, and finally let out an entirely uncouth and delightfully loud guffaw. Blaise looked less than impressed for a moment before he added his own booming laughter to the whole affair, while she sat looking back and forth between them.

"What exactly is so funny that you're both laughing at me? Because I can assure you, regardless of being in public, I can hex you both aaany second now if you don't explain." Draco re-cooped his senses the fastest, schooling his face as best he could, a tiny dimple of amusement still embedded in one cheek, as he sat on her left,

"Not laughing at you, Granger, I promise. Blaise and I have something to share that the majority of the wizarding world doesn't know, and we've guarded carefully for some time, but I think Blaise wants to express it to someone who might understand and sympathize. Preferably before I get shackled to some woman I've never met, who will likely despise me on principle. And, as he and I consider you a friend, I think the particular urgency of his nerves also has to do with the fact that you're also likely to get bound to some priggish Hufflepuff—" at this Hermione gave an unladylike snort and Draco paused, considering the thought,

"—No, you're right, Granger, some Ravenclaw then, as you'd absolutely trample a 'Puff into the dirt."

She gave a curt nod in approval of the statement. Blaise rose from his knee to sit to her right, their bodies like antithetical bookends around her, and he rubbed one thumb into his opposing palm, and stared at his hands when he began speaking.

...

"This land-binding, and the marriage law that's supposed to keep us from all going 'round the bend by speeding up the process, it's brought some things into stark relief for me, and for Draco."

She didn't speak, but she gestured with rolling hands that he should go on and explain, but this really was the crux of his nerves. What if she reacted badly?—Well, she was too righteous to be disgusted by their relationship—but she might potentially be disgusted by the fact that any woman bound to Draco would be his as well. He had no awareness of how long he'd been silently working up the nerve, but clearly too long, if her wide eyes were any indication.

"Merlin's bollocks. I'm just going to say it, and if you think it's vile, well then, I'll just never speak to you again." She gave a somewhat sad smile, and he felt his spine straightening with confidence as she spoke, her words warming his chest,

"Blaise, I highly doubt that anything you could say or do would disgust me, unless you have committed genocide or rape lately. I helped bring down Voldemort, and I lived through nearly eight years of watching Ron Weasley eat. I can handle it." Draco smirked at her comment, then gave him an encouraging nod from her other side, so he plunged in,

"In the beginning of fifth year, Draco and I began seeing each other romantically."

She nodded, gave another small warm smile. He blinked at her.

"Is that all?" she asked. Draco interjected,

"I told you she wouldn't be bothered with that part."

Blaise spoke up again, looking at her, knowing that Draco didn't want to be looked at for this part anyway,

"Before Draco was marked, we made a blood oath. We're bound. We both wanted to keep the other as safe as possible, and in the event that one of us didn't survive, well, it was as close to marriage to each other as we were going to get, what with our familial obligations and all." There was that sad smile again, she understood. Blaise very quickly decided he detested that smile.

"We split for a while in seventh year, but got back together when we all went back to repeat the year and graduate. We're still bound, so what Draco feels from the land-binding, I feel too even though I'm not a proper citizen. Instead of being married off to separate women, we're both going to potentially be driven mad by wanting the same woman, and if she can't handle that we're lovers, or that we're both going to end up being bound to her when she marries Draco—well—" he pulled in air gustily, trying again,

"And if she's disgusted and rejects Draco because of me, and he needs an heir more than I do, and I don't want to go mad, or see him hurt because the land strapped him with some wife who doesn't love him."

Granger's eyes had gone all misty. Oh Merlin, Blaise knew if she cried, Draco would flinch and close himself off. Blaise would get choked up, and he hated doing that in public, and there was some absolute frump of a woman walking what appeared to be a mangy dog coming their way—

...

Hermione watched Blaise work himself into a bit of a panic, something about his robust frame pulling into itself, half out of defensiveness, half discomfort at her, and possibly, his own, rising emotionality. It just would not do. She took a deep breath and blinked her eyes clear.

"Are either of you even interested in women? You shouldn't be forced—" Draco cut in, as Blaise was still composing himself,

"Granger, we both like witches, and we've both had relationships with witches outside our relationship with each other. We both expected to be married off eventually. The difference, and the reason for Blaise's nerves, is that we've never..."

"Shared," Blaise interjected, "and what if she rejects both of us because she thinks it's perverse, or rejects Draco flat out because of the past?"

Granger seemed to consider this, her brow furrowing like a lioness, and they could practically watch her hackles go up,

"She'd be an idiot to reject either of you—" Another nanosecond of thought, and a curt nod of confirmation,

"—yup, she'd have to be an absolutely vacuous, fatuous, and supercilious shrew. You both can send this hypothetical woman to me should she even _begin_ to react that way. I would be more than happy to tell her to get bent, and where she ought to shove any 'disgust' she may be feeling." She felt herself snarling and tried to reign in her temper,

"Now, Blaise, you've extended my itinerary, so I demand that you take me to this salon, and then we're all going back to mine for tea."

She liked to think that her tone brooked no argument, but something about Blaise's facial expression made her think he thought her stern voice was cute—how irritating.

Upon entering the salon across from Honeydukes, she was shocked to discover that the 'Angelina' Blaise had referred to, was in fact Angelina Weasley, née Johnson, who apparently owned the salon with Alicia Spinnet. Angelina gave Blaise a big hug, calling him her favorite customer. She wondered if the earth had swapped its magnetic poles while she hadn't been looking.

...

Draco watched Granger cycle through confusion, irritation, and finally resigned boredom as Blaise explained to Angelina about Granger's hair. That he hadn't known she was 'mixed', at Hogwarts, which apparently Angelina hadn't known either, if her surprised face was any indication. They then began nattering about hair types and methods, so Draco tuned them out and spoke to Granger instead, while gesturing at the covered cage where her new familiar was occasionally rustling his wings,

"What are you going to name him?"

She blinked a few times and when she registered his question, she chewed her bottom lip in thought. Draco gave a shiver, which got Blaise to turn away from his conversation for the briefest moment. As Blaise helped her up and into a squashy barber's chair, Draco realized that she hadn't touched him, ever if you didn't count third year, and it lit an odd fire in his chest. Like watching Potter with the Snitch in his fist back in school, it was jealousy, and it struck him as odd. The sensation threw him so far within his own mind that he nearly missed her answer to his question,

"...Harpy eagle's natural range covers much of what used to be Aztec territory, so I think I'll call him 'Ehecatl'. It means 'wind' in Nahuatl, and the Aztec god of the same name was sometimes depicted with black plumage. I think it suits."

...

The mani pedi she'd gotten had made her giddy, happier than anyone touching her hair had ever pleased her, until she'd seen the results. Hermione stared at herself in the mirror when Angelina had finished; stuck predominantly speechless by her own hair. No longer a towering frizzy cloud—but riotous curls like whizzy ribbons on Christmas gifts, or cake decorations made of shaved chocolate—a lion's mane. They still sprang out in every conceivable direction, but each ringlet held together now instead of exploding into fluff. She should have been paying more attention to the instructions Angelina had given, but she was uncomfortable in the salon, as swamped with beautiful women as it was, and the only men were Malfoy and Blaise, which didn't help.

Suddenly she didn't feel quite so much like she shouldn't have been in the room. Suddenly she looked a great deal like old photos of Grann. It felt feminine, yes, but also powerful, to finally be in a room full of people who not only could get her mane to behave, but valued it. Angelina had raved about Hermione's hair for some time, asking how she'd grown it so long and what protective styles did she use,

"I don't know what that means" Angelina was awed, but then grinned very much like Fred,

"We'll make you another appointment for next month and we can experiment."

"Next month I might be getting ready for my wedding...that doesn't sound like a good time to experiment..."

Angelina had agreed, and scheduled her for two appointments over the next four weeks, saying she should look her best during whatever courtship was coming her way. It was a reminder she hadn't needed in that moment, so she'd been more chipper than she felt when she asked Malfoy and Blaise if they were ready to go and have tea. Just her luck, they clearly noticed.


	16. Chapter 16

Blaise had seen her cooing over the mani pedi, he'd even had to discreetly adjust himself when Angelina had been massaging Hermione's calves and she'd moaned. It was with a twist of hopelessness that he thought suddenly of her walking down the aisle towards him and Draco swathed in white. The daydream had merit in that she clearly didn't judge him or Draco for the past, and yet shared all the likelihood of blast-ended skrewts becoming next year's fad pet for toddlers.

Watching her finally assess her hair and seeing the bloom of recognition on her face, that she was beautiful and powerful, that had been nearly painful for him. He'd been raised by a mother who treasured, hid behind, and wielded her femininity like a finely honed weapon. He'd also seen his mother for the three years of his childhood after his father passed, when she was alone, hadn't eaten, and certainly hadn't found herself beautiful. He knew the pain involved in the half smiles with sad eyes that didn't believe his juvenile protestations that he had the prettiest mama on the whole planet.

The idea that Hermione Granger might see herself as anything less than stunning didn't surprise him—considering she'd always been a bookworm and a bit of a loner, he imagined her blood status and the realities of childhood taunting—it added up. But the idea that she hadn't seen the results of her own growth, that her insecurities hadn't been destroyed for new ones by adulthood. That rankled.

She'd insisted on paying for her appointment herself, despite him insisting on the visit in the first place, because 'she wanted to thank Angelina herself for all the effort'. That had rankled too.

It was this irritation and distraction that saw them leaving the salon and heading to the apparition point, passing Dervish & Banges that made him overlook a shock of red-orange hair attached to a badly dressed and lanky body struggling to shrink what appeared to be a grandfather clock. Hermione had been walking on Draco's right, still leaning on her cane, and he felt Draco stiffen mid-step to his right.

Suddenly The Weasel himself had turned, done what otherwise would have been a hilarious double-take, and had stomped over to address Granger directly. And what he had said had rankled so much that Blaise swore he'd put his own fingernails through his palms:

"Mione, what in Merlin's name are you doing out with these two Death Eaters?...and what the bloody hell have you done to your hair?!"

Blaise and Draco watched as her nostrils flared with indignation, breathing in slowly to control her ire, and perhaps she thought answering the twat would make him get out of her path, but that seemed unlikely to Blaise,

"Who I spend time with isn't really your concern, is it Ronald? As for my hair, I just came from seeing Angelina. She does lovely work."

The Weasel had molded his mouth into a thin white line when she'd essentially told him to bugger off and mind his own business, he audibly bunched his hands into fists when he snidely responded,

"Does Harry know you've been gadding about with these wankers then, or are you just lying to him about this too?"

Blaise watched her eyes narrow slightly, he could practically see her decide to go for the kill. Little crackles if electricity shot out from the ends of her curls and fingertips, sounding like lightning strikes at high speed, and the corner of her mouth turned up when she replied,

"Seeing as Draco is now Harry's Auror partner, I'm fairly certain he's aware that we're friends. We're all doing dinner sometime next week."

Clearly all the blood had rushed to his face in his fit of temper, as his face had gone beet purple in way that made his freckles look white. Blind rage was the only paltry reason Blaise could think of for what fell out of the bastard's mouth after that,

"Oh I see now, out to the salon in the hopes of prettying yourself up to become the whore of one of these posh snakes then, eh? Don't know why you bothered, this land binding business is the only way anyone could stand you being a demanding prude long enough to marry you anyway."

Draco was glaring at Weasley in a way that spoke of killing, maiming the corpse, setting it alight, and pissing on the ashes. He opened his mouth to drawl a retort, Blaise had even begun to reach for his wand, but Granger had beaten them all to it. She'd looked him up and down for a moment, incredulity battling injured calculation on her face, and somehow decided that his lunging posture meant she had a perfect shot to swing her cane full force upwards from the ground.

Right into his bollocks.

Blaise suppressed a sympathetic cringe.

Draco managed not only to not flinch, but to slide a smirk onto his mouth, as smooth as silk, in place of the fury that had been there only an instant before.

Weasley had crumpled instantly in the street, and she'd planted the cane next to his head rather abruptly, visibly pleased when he flinched away from it, and stepped over his body like it was nothing. She smiled viciously down at the Weasel and drawled, rather a lot like Draco would have,

"It's impossible to be a whore and a prude at the same time, Ronald. And you have dirt on your nose, just there," she scratched vaguely at the side of a nostril, "did you know?"

She didn't speak past that, just kept her somewhat pained three-legged limp up the road, to which Draco and Blaise could only stride forward to catch up. Of course, neither of them could resist giving the Weasel a good firm kick to the gut first, then brushed themselves off as though his exhalations offended, and followed her.

...

Draco gave into the urge and took her hand, slinging it lazily into the crook of his elbow, and before she could even look up at him regarding the touch, Blaise had set a hand on his shoulder, and he'd apparated them all back to her twee cottage on the coast. He resolutely ignored the tingling in his fingertips as he conjured Blaise another glass of water, noting that with all the apparating they'd done today, Blaise was recovering faster than usual.

Granger was suddenly slinging herself towards the house with her cane, occasionally muttering unkindly at it when it caught on the cobbles or strafed sand into her practical and plain ballet flats. She had seemed a bit giddy looking in the mirror at the salon, only to deflate a bit at the mention of her upcoming nuptials, and further withered during the Weasel's onslaught.

He supposed he could relate with the impending doom sensation of waiting. He could definitely relate to having ones insecurities and failing rubbed in ones face, as an overall unpleasant and damaging experience. Draco abstractly wondered how long the Sorting Hat would take, but it had only been two days. Even with magic, it was unlikely that an ancient semi-sentient hat could sort through a good portion of the population of Wizarding Britain with any kind of urgency. Or at least, not make good matches if asked to do so at speed. He would have to ask Granger, but she was already clearly irate, so perhaps not today.

...

She was officially livid, but didn't feel like she could give in to her temper, considering she had guests. Or witnesses, really. Ron had no right to comment on any aspect of her life—and to imply that she was somehow disloyal to a past cause and Harry's current life by proxy—well that was preposterous.

Ugh, she just needed to break something and have a good cry, but that was off the menu until she was alone. It wasn't that she thought ill of Malfoy or Zabini anymore, or even an insecurity that they might mock her—she didn't see either of them doing that anymore—but she really didn't want them to see how much Ron's words had actually hurt her.

She had only discussed the end of her and Ron's relationship once, with Harry and Ginny, so the idea that it might need to be verbally rehashed made her deeply uncomfortable. Vulnerable, itchy, and slightly nauseous. And still terribly furious. She dodged the house to head straight for the back garden, past the chicken coops and the woodshed, out into open pasture. She dropped the cane at her side, partially because her hands were shaking too much to hold it and partially to just stand still in her own pulsating fury. She whirled around, knowing the two former Slytherins were behind her, observing.

"Fuck this," she muttered to herself. She realized she had pulled her wand from its holster on her forearm at some point, and she was clenching it so hard her knuckle bones were essentially visible through her skin.

She pulled a handful of hay from the ground and transfigured it into a very large stack of dishes that looked just like Molly Weasley's prized china set, all blue chintz and lacy edges.

"Gentleman, we're not having tea yet, or practicing your _Patronus_ '. Not yet anyway, I need your help first—have either of you ever been to on a shooting party before?"

Malfoy's delightfully vicious smile told her everything she needed to know.

...

First and foremost, Blaise was absolutely sure that he'd never heard Hermione Granger curse before. He still wasn't entirely that he had heard it just now, it was entirely possible that he hallucinated the sound of her voice from the expression on her face.

He found himself standing in awe as Draco levitated the hideous china into the air, whizzing each plate, saucer, and cup off and up into the sky for Granger to non-verbally blast out of the air.

To crush to dust.

To shoot bluebell flames at.

To charm into attacking other flatware midair to grand effect.

To strike with lightning until the porcelain got red hot and popped like a Christmas chestnut.

To break off a third and bludgeon the remainder to bits with the smaller bit of itself.

To disembowel itself, which on the inanimate and bowel-less serving platter, had effectively pulled the middle out and twisted it up like a pretzel until it shattered.

To slingshot into surrounding tree trunks and laugh at the tinkling sound of splintering porcelain.

To force the shards back into the air, forming spectral hands, which she seemed to to be controlling with her own motions, as she gave an unearthly bellow and squeezed them against each other. The cacophony of shattering, scraping, tense bending, snapping, crushing and grinding followed her scream as the last of the chintz floated off in the breeze in a puff of white powder.

Which is what Harry Potter walked around the corner to witness, as well as her gleeful expression at the havoc she'd made. He seemed nonplussed, which didn't make any sense. Blaise found himself swiveling to look back at her—chin up, wand in hand—defiantly unashamed. Merlin, the last ten minutes would have been so fucking sexy if they hadn't also been terrifying. Who would know those kinds of violent spells?!—Hermione Granger—apparently.

...

Draco watched Blaise's face watching Potter—the Boy Wonder who was eyeing Granger and her destruction whilst simultaneously picking at something on his coat—and when Blaise's heated stare landed on him, he knew, because he'd felt it too. Potter scuffed his left foot, his physical tell for having to say something he didn't want to,

"Ron's reported the three of you to the Aurors for an assault today in Hogsmeade. I was hoping to come here and have you tell me you'd been home all day, but I can already see that's not the case."

Granger's voice was glacial and volcanic at the same time,

"Then tell Stephens to come here and take my memory, if he's so keen to push the issue for Ron." At this, Potter had the temerity to laugh,

"Stephens is the head of the Auror Department, Hermione. He got that job precisely by not being that stupid. He sent me to do it instead, as you're less likely to do to me what you were just doing to my mother-in-law's china—by the way—please tell me that was transfigured and not the real set?"

Potter was twirling a vial in his hand as he spoke that stopped abruptly when he arrived at that final thought, but Granger didn't let him off the hook that easy. She smirked at him as she took the vial, pulled her memory out in a silver blue strand with her wand, and almost sung at him,

"That's for me to know, Harry, and for you to find out."


	17. Chapter 17

Harry had lingered with her memory in his hand. He was clearly angling to see Malfoy and Blaise practice their Patronus, but she knew full well neither of those men were going to move a muscle with the 'Wonder Boy' watching. She found herself conjuring a tiny flock of what looked like bluebirds, and narrowing her eyes at her best friend,

"Well, you've been Stephens' errand boy. Do I need to use these," she pointed at the cobalt birds, "or are you going to admit you're being rude, Harry James Potter, trying to stick around for something you know full-well is really quite personal?"

Harry immediately focused his now wide eyes on her, not her guests, and put his hands up in surrender,

"My apologies, Hermione. Yes, it's personal, and yes, I'm leaving, and no, you don't have to use those." She cancelled the spell, and he smirked at her,

"See you three for dinner on Thursday night?"

Hermione felt herself fighting back a chuckle, and Malfoy nodded, but Blaise just looked around as if he was confused about how he'd garnered an invitation. Blaise shrugged—'what the hell' might as well have been written in capital letters across his forehead—and Harry's resulting smile was affable and only a little impish.

"Well, gents, I'll leave you to it. Remember that when she says you're not focusing enough, what she means is to relax and only stay with the Patronus. Ignore everything else. The memory doesn't need to be happy—mine's not really happy, neither is hers—but they are strong and re-affirming. Also, stop Occluding, or you'll never be able to do it."

With those parting words and a sharp crack, Harry apparated away, likely back to the office, Blaise was quirking an eyebrow at her,

"Does Occlumency really prevent the Patronus from working?"

"I have to stop using it before I can do the Patronus, and Harry is pants at Occlumency, it's likely part of why he's so good at the Patronus. I'm sorry, I didn't realize either of you were using it, or I would have suggested that last time."

She turned to see Malfoy was smirking, shoulders quaking, clearly holding in a deep laugh.

"What's so funny, Malfoy?"

"Two things: Ginevra is going to adore Blaise and it's going to irritate Potter, and Wonder Boy was afraid of bluebirds? What's not to find funny?!"

She quirked an eyebrow at him, and again used that tone that implied she was describing an overcast day,

"Those aren't really bluebirds Malfoy, they're bluebell flames in the shape of bluebirds, and they're sentient enough to send after a particular person. As for Ginny, I'm sure Blaise will figure out how to skirt her being a gossiphound."

His laughter was sucked back into his mouth mid-chortle, and he leaned over to clutch his knees as he appeared to have choked a bit and was now coughing. Blaise was laughing at Draco, slapping the posh blighter on the back,

"That'll teach you to mock Potter for being afraid of her."

"I gathered that."

She couldn't have stopped her resulting torrent of laughter if she had tried. It was silly, really, to consider how long it had been since she'd had a really good laugh. This sort of laughter made her feel scrubbed clean, short of breath, and contentedly empty on the inside when she was done. Despite Ron's explosion this afternoon, she was oddly sure that she'd had, and was continuing to have, a very good day.

Malfoy seemed to have recovered, and was standing quite comfortably, having removed his shoes. Blaise kicked off the ridiculously garish loafers he'd been wearing all day, seemingly without noticing. Really, how was it he could make purple velvet look normal?

"It occurs to me that both of you might be losing sleep—like I've been—over when the Sorting Hat might start spitting out decisions. It should get to our year within the next fortnight or so. Hopefully that will at least let you relax for today."

Blaise looked visibly relieved to have a timeline, Draco seemed apprehensive, but accepting.

"Ready then?"

...

The ripple of magic through his skin when his grandfather's wand chose him. _A light breeze, a decent blue wash of light, and then a fizzle and a crack, and it was gone._

Finding Draco after the Battle of Hogwarts, alive. _Very bright, she said, that one nearly took shape._

Hermione's snarling face as she said she'd set his and Draco's future bride straight should she dislike her romantic prospects with the two of them, the sensation of being validated by someone without ulterior motives, and defended before a problem had even really occurred. Her bared teeth and narrowed eyes had felt like a shield and precious gift at the same time. He'd liked that feeling. _She gasped and he opened his eyes._

There was a sudden burst of air and blue light—swirling from his wand and condensing in the air about a meter off—and suddenly the shape was there, sniffing the air and seeming to paw at the unseen ground. He heard Hermione whisper in awe, but he could not take his eyes away from the shape in front of him,

 _"Mellivora capensis."_

...

Letting his Occulmency shields down was akin to letting fortress collapse inside his head. Draco knew it likely took several minutes, but neither Blaise nor Granger said a word. He had always been a natural at Occlumency, or so Aunt Bellatrix had said when she'd taught him. He had to shut his eyes and imagine stone walls crumbling in order to begin peeling back his layers of self-defense.

He was racking his brain for things that had made him feel safe after the War, things that had been re-affirming, things he could believe. Children he'd healed at St. Mungo's before their parents recognized him, and their lack of initial judgment didn't seem strong enough. Something else then, something stronger.

Pulling on Auror robes, even if they were Trainee robes, had recently lent a certain air of redemption. He could help, he could mend people while they did the brave thing and stuck their necks out for the betterment of society. Maybe one day, he'd learn how to do that himself, instead of just lending his intuition to investigations and his healing skills to the DMLE. He'd healed Granger, perhaps she could teach him. _A massive spark, oddly teal in color, flew from his wand and popped as violently as a game of Exploding Snap._

Blaise's embrace after the Battle of Hogwarts, as brazen as it had been under the scrutiny of both of Draco's parents—despite the audience, his being covered in dust and ash, stinking of brimstone and the ozone aftertaste of casting curses—Blaise had found him, pulled him into an iron embrace and had given the kind of deep exhalation that screamed his relief to all and sundry. _There was a flare of bright blue light and a blast of warm air, crackling and tinkling at the end of his wand, the sound reminding him of icicles in the sun, but it collapsed back into his wand as the noise sped up._

Then he remembered the thought he'd had after his father's funeral, that he was here, alive, that he Survived. He was a Survivor. _And just like Blaise, the light was near-blinding, the rush of determined and powerful magic was making his wand-hand tingle. As a shape coalesced from the bright blue mist, Hermione whispered its name._

Her tone sounded much like it had when she'd understood his tattoos for the first time, a little impressed, and like she very much approved of it's shape, even though he still didn't quite recognize it.

 _"Gulo gulo."_


	18. Chapter 18

Hermione had returned to work the next day, and found that meeting with Kingsley and Harry to go over current projects and research needs calmed her. She didn't have to think about Ron, or her temper, or the upcoming matches from The Sorting Hat. She could get a list of actionable items from Kingsley, and begin chipping away at the intricacies of those problems. It was the first Monday in June, she'd woken up without any pain, and the weather was glorious.

There were only two irritations of her first Monday back at work: one was her inability to apiparate between the Department of Mysteries Library and the Ministry Archives, as she really disliked the roller-coaster-like ride inside the Ministry elevators, and the second was Blaise Zabini's incessant _Patronus_ messages. It was amusing to see and hear exactly how chuffed he was with himself. She had chuckled at his enthusiasm, knowing the giddy feeling of mastering not only something new, but something as difficult as a corporeal _Patronus_. She had sent her otter back to him while thumbing through a law book in Anglo-Saxon,

"Hey Granger, why didn't you say yesterday that this thing is a badger? Seriously?! Do I look like a Hufflepuff to you?!"

"Blaise, it's an African Honey Badger, it makes the European Badgers we have here look downright tame in comparison."

Sixteen minutes later:

"Huh, I guess I overlooked there being different kinds of badgers. How many kinds of badgers can there even be in the world?"

"I'm sure I have no idea Blaise. Why don't you look it up?"

Twenty-two minutes later:

"Hermione Granger, Brightest Witch of Our Age doesn't know something?! I feel like I ought to call the Daily Prophet or something."

His tone was clearly amused, teasing, and he was laying on the false awe a touch thick for her liking. It had made her smirk momentarily, but the tête-à-tête was distracting her from a runic translation, and beginning to officially sour her mood. She didn't reply to him.

Thirty-nine minutes later:

"Bloody hell—now I have to get out of bed and slog down to the library, to find a bestiary of all things, where Narcissa will insist on tea. Merlin help me, Granger, you're not only making me look up a book, and bloody read the thing, but now I'm going to have to put on trousers And use manners before noon. How irritating."

The idea of Blaise without trousers on made her brain go momentarily blank, aside from aestethically pleasing mental image. She shook her head as if that would help clear her imagination, and send a somewhat terse response,

"I'm sure you'll survive having to say 'please' and 'thank you' long enough for a cuppa, without expiring from the shame of participating in all that propriety."

Fourteen minutes after that:

"You don't know that for sure, Granger. I for one, am fairly positive I'm allergic."

She had laughed outright, but still decided not to reply, lest he interrupt her again.

Two hours later, the blue beast was snuffling around atop the parchments on her worktable in the Archives when she returned from the loo:

"Draco's being pissy"—there was a long pause as if he'd been listening to Malfoy say something she couldn't hear—" _excuse me_ , his majesty is not being _pissy_ , he is _irritated_ to discover from the bestiary that his Patronus' name means 'glutton' thrice over, and is more than a little disgusted to find that they often eat carrion."

"Ugh, he would get finicky over something like that. It's not meant to be literally indicative of your nature, but rather metaphorical. Perhaps you should both realize that your guardians have traits that are incredibly admirable."

Thirty seconds later:

"What's admirable about carrion?"

"Goodbye Blaise. I'm at work...Wait, why isn't Malfoy at work?"

Another thirty seconds:

"He is. As I was so rudely driven from bed earlier this morning, I decided to come here to hobnob with someone in the International Trade Department whose acquiescence I need for shipping permits in Tunis. Anyway, I swung by the DMLE to pry him off his desk in this _particularly sad_ bullpen in order to go to lunch. Wanna come? Where are you in this infernal labyrinth anyway?"

"I will come up to the DMLE and go to lunch, but only if you acknowledge that interrupting me this afternoon will result in a reply that is a Howler rather than my Patronus."

Twenty-six seconds later:

"Deal. Ten point to Slytherin for extortion, Ms. Granger." She was smirking while she placed a modified stasis charm over her work so no one could touch or remove her research materials while she was out.

...

Blaise was lounging against Draco's desk, fully aware of Draco's glaring at his ass, likely on top of some very important paperwork that Blaise could only be slightly convinced to give a Knut about.

He was still smirking about inviting her to lunch, something Draco had approved of with a quick nod, and which Potter had snorted about from across the bullpen. Or maybe Potter's snort was about his commentary on the room's decor, Blaise couldn't really be arsed. He had realized the first time she'd not sent a reply that he was likely pestering her, but he had several justifications for his continued messages to her:

One: He enjoyed the sensation of casting the spell now that he'd mastered it. It kept filling him up with a sense of bubbly warmth that nearly tickled. He'd been pestering Draco this morning with it, until he was growled at to bugger off, so he'd sent the blue eidolon off to her instead.

Two: He enjoyed talking with her. It felt oddly flirtatious and familiar, like bantering with Draco.

Three: As soon as he'd recognized her irritation, he decided it was adorable, and even more so, when her otter began taking on the narrowed eyes and tight mouth of her own irked mien, which he found highly amusing.

He'd sent one off to Draco informing his lover of her otter's pinched face and how precocious it was. The reply had made him laugh aloud:

"You're a shit-stirrer, Blaise."

So he waited for her reply, looking for all the world as relaxed as possible, but his skin was crawling with his own nerves, so Draco probably felt like someone had stuck him head-first in an anthill. The otter finally swam into the room in a lazy spiral, almost dancing with itself, its face decidedly smug.

"I will come up to the DMLE and go to lunch, but only if you acknowledge that interrupting me this afternoon will result in a reply that is a Howler, rather than my Patronus."

Blaise saw Potter flinch in his periphery: amusing, satisfying. Good. He found a broad smile slithering its way across his face, and a fresh ration of gooseflesh washing across the skin above his knees and the back of his neck at her audacity. She was more slippery than anyone had ever given her credit for back at Hogwarts. It was delightful.

"Expecto Patronum—Deal. Ten point to Slytherin for extortion, Ms. Granger."

...

Draco's eyes widened at her threat, he was sure she would make good on it. Blaise has better not be in the bullpen when said Howler was inevitably delivered.

That thought rankled because Blaise was pointlessly flirting again, and he especially didn't want to contemplate how his gut had tightened and his cock had twitched at Blaise's response. The tone of Blaise's voice made a very rapid assault on his brain, like flash photography of very old fantasies involving Granger and detention, all pummeling the back of his eyes. He was definitely getting a headache.

It had not helped that she was wearing slate palazzo pants, a peach blouse, and bloody heels when she did sweep into the Auror office. Not now that he was acutely aware of the actual shape of her hips underneath her prim office attire.

...

Harry shook his head. He wondered if any of them realized they were being very flirty. Well, no, he knew Zabini was aware of his actions, and Malfoy's eyes nearly bugged out of his skull, so he clearly noticed as well. Harry knew Hermione would likely be oblivious, she was constantly overlooking when people were trying to chat her up. She only ever seemed to notice the really leery ones, and she'd said more than once that she purposefully ignored it when she did notice.

Working in the Auror office had taught Harry a lot, but observing Malfoy and Zabini intermittently over the last few months had definitely taught him that growling, sarcasm, extortion, name-calling, and threats constituted flirtation of the highest order to them both.

Sometimes he wasn't sure if they were flirting with each other or the people around them, what with Zabini just pouring charm everywhere. He also wasn't sure yet if it was a pureblood thing or a Slytherin thing; he certainly hadn't worked up the nerve to ask Andromeda to confirm it.

He realized he wouldn't be upset if The Sorting Hat spit out Zabini as a match for Hermione, even he could see that she could be happy with the challenge the mischievous colossus would present. But he worried, Zabini wasn't a citizen, so he wasn't really flirting for purpose, he wouldn't be included in any of the matches. Harry just wanted to see Hermione well-matched and happy. She deserved nothing less. After all the upheaval and loss, most of it he still battled with his own sense of guilt about, there were some questions he wasn't willing to ask in case there would somehow be even more blood on his hands.

...

Lunch at The Red Lion was mildly irksome to Hermione, as she was overwhelmed by the buzz of conversations from politicos Muggle and magical alike. Arguments about immigration made her instantly itchy and irritable, and the snippets she heard of some Ministry underlings discussing the current inflation rate of the Galleon was just mind-numbing. Perhaps choosing the nearest restaurant hadn't been her best choice. Ugh.

She pressed her fingertips against the tip of her wand, holstered up her sleeve, and whispered a _Muffliato_ as soon as they were seated. She'd overdone the spell a bit, considering all the other voices in the pub were now a low murmur, but she didn't mind. Blaise was staring at her as if she'd grown a third head, and Malfoy's eyebrows were nearly in his hairline. He finally voiced his inquiry in his usual posh drawl,

"Wandless?" She shook her head, held up her hand and pulled the sleeve down while folding her fingers over again to demonstrate. Blaise chuckled,

"So just mostly wandless, then. Good to know."

She found herself nearly instantly nervous, skin positively crawling, and she had no idea why. She'd spent time with them alone before, shared meals, even flirted back at Blaise before—she had been aware of it before and was aware of it today—but she also knew it meant nothing to him. He did that with everyone, she wasn't entirely sure he was always aware of it himself. For whatever reason, this meal felt different. She found herself rolling the seam of her napkin up against her thigh under the table, all through what she remembered later to be a lovely conversation, but she couldn't remember what was discussed or why she'd been so nervous. Her afternoon was uneventful, but productive, but returning home in the evening felt too quiet. Her dinner felt too solitary, the wind going through her fruit trees, and even the distant wash of the waves sounded ominous instead of comforting. It was as if she was finally realizing that she lived alone, and for the very first time, it was an uneasy vacumm from sound and interaction, instead of a sanctuary against the white noise of everyone else.

...

Kingsley Shacklebolt had been reading the lists of matched pairs for weeks, and his staff had been sending out form notice letters ever since the Sorting Hat had swallowed the last of the summoned parchment slips three days after the public announcement. The hat had insisted on starting with older folks and working its way down to the most recent class of Hogwarts graduates. Somewhere in the middle would be the Hogwarts classes of '98 and '99, the ones everyone was worried about, the ones that really should not have owed a single further thing to the Wizarding world at large, but still had to submit to the land. The warriors on both sides—those young people who should never have had to fight, but had done so valiantly—and were now struggling to rebuild their lives after seeing and losing entirely too much.

The wedding announcements in the Daily Prophet had already begun. Most of the older folks, divorcées and those whose partners had passed away, had decided to marry quietly and privately at the Ministry, and the announcements went to the paper as a matter of public record. He had thought he'd be a bachelor for life, and the end of the Shaklebolt family line, so he'd been just as required—and hesitant about his chances as the younger folks—about the land binding.

He was pleased enough with his own match—Gwenog Jones of the Holyhead Harpies—who he remembered as being a Gryffindor two years his junior. He hadn't actually met her in person yet, but they'd exchanged a few owls. They'd planned to announce their engagement and get married during the short bre she had next week.

Her overall self-assurance and fiery attitude would have been off-putting to him—a former Ravenclaw himself—had she not shed her lion-skin for a moment to express her nerves about becoming the wife of the Minister for Magic. What if her profesional squabbles lost him his support? What would be expected of her from the public, and from him? Did he even like Quidditch? Because if she couldn't talk about her work, then they might not work out, and she actually was hoping for a life-match out of the land binding. What had he been hoping for? Could he even be attracted to a halfblood 'tomboy' with Beater's shoulders, who loved to wear heels on her nights off regardless of the height of her date?

It had all been in one letter with significantly sloppier penmanship than the preceding three, leading him to believe that it had taken more than a bit of Firewhiskey with her teammates to even put her concerns to parchment, which he could relate to. Kingsley wasn't fantastic about expressing his personal thoughts and emotions outside of the political scope. He much preferred a Wizengamot debate to a discussion of whether or not a partner's behavior might affect his feelings. He blushed briefly at the thought, but recognized that they'd likely fight if they didn't learn to at least trust each other with their emotions.

He'd done his best to answer her questions: her professional squabbles would likely be more talked-about in the press after they married, but were unlikely to damage his career, the only possible issue would be that he'd havae to talk to Ludo Bagman more often than he liked. Professionally, he expected her to play her best becuase he was mad for Quidditch and hand't been able to play since a Bludger to the head in his fifth year, and he wanted to be able to cheer her on. As far as his personal expectations, he would prefer her fidelty in a relationship and she would have his. The public's expectations of her outside of her annual attendence at a few Ministry events could go hang as far as he was concerned.

His life as Minister and his life as a man were things he considered very separate, and thus far, even the press had respected that. Their ability to do so was likely made significantly easier considering he currently had no personal life worth printing anything about. He'd even taken the emotional leap and told her that he too, was looking for a life-match, grateful that the land had offered him to opportunity to find a partner, as he'd always thought his professional ambitions had ruined his ambitions for a happy personal life.

He wanted a confidant and lover to come home to, he wanted to share meals and travel with a companion, but he was unlikely to always be on time for dinner, and he never took breakfast. He'd even shared with her that he'd already mourned the end of his family line, should she decide that she didn't want children, so she needn't feel obligated to give him an heir. He'd left a post-script to answer her final frantically scribbled question:

 _p.s. I wouldn't worry. I've been told I'm very tall, and the delicate women of the world have never appealed to me._

He'd sent that letter this morning, and it was now nearing dinner, and he was still at the office. Kingsley found his eyes glazing over a bit as he stared at today's list of matches, and wishing he could reach Gwenog directly. He wanted to ask her if he ought to send these notice letters personally, rather than the filled-in forms his staff had been sending, or if he should avoid any sign of special treatment. The hat had reached the graduates from '99.


End file.
